Some people learn to dance. Others are born to.

Hari and Angela Kumar,
addressing the guests at their
rehearsal dinner

I didn't give advice to the new bride and groom over the weekend even though I had opportunities on the microphone at the rehearsal dinner and on the video recording at the wedding reception. To be frank, I don't have a clue what I said on the video recording (nor did I at the time I said it). Dede told me I did a great job, but she also tells that to Bode after he struggles but successfully poops, so I'll take her compliment with a grain of salt.

What would I have said to them?

"Make time to dance in the kitchen."

It's incredible parenting advice as well. We dance in the kitchen all the time. We had an iPod dock right next to the fridge when Gavin was younger and every night when we cleaned up the dinner dishes, we'd rock it out to the Millennium Hip-Hop Party album. I already knew Gavin loved music, but looking back on it, that was probably about the time I realized he was BFAB.

I'm not exactly sure where he gets it from. 

It's not like I spent three days in two different towns last week looking for the perfect pair of black shoes with slippery soles. A lady actually told me I wanted the non-slip soles and I assured her, curtly enough to scare her away, that I was not in fact a dumbass and that I was well aware of what I was seeking. I also got some odd looks at Kohl's as I was trying to Hustle in the aisle to see if I was happy with one particular pair. I wasn't.

He probably doesn't get it from Dede either, who is the only person I know who has a dance move called The Mixer. Yep, this kind of mixer. Perhaps she should rename it The Egg Beater though. You might think she developed this move from dancing in the kitchen. Nope, she's had it in her repertoire the entire time I've known her.

He probably doesn't get it from his paternal grandparents, who took ballroom classes for years and have cleared many a wedding dance floor with their Swing, Cha-Cha or Jitterbug.

We all love to dance, but we're not BFAB. He won't want slippery shoes for his type of dance (but he'd probably love a slippery scalp to spin on), and I don't think he'll ever Manual Mix or Swing either.

Does Gavin blow me away with great moves? No. But the passion he performs with and his intense desire to improve is impressive at the least. He imitates everything he sees. He started working on different handstand holds because "Tyler" did them in Step Up. This also led to forward flips with no hands in his bed, which he mastered, but we outlawed a few weeks later.

When we had Step Up on the DVR, he watched the ending dance scene about 150 times trying to do every move Tyler did.

He now has a new hero. His name is Luke and he is the main guy in Step Up 3, which he has now watched about 80 times in the last 3 weeks. Gavin has added a back roll where he pushes off his right shoulder to bounce to his feet. He asked me the other day if I could spin on my head.

"Unfortunately, I can't little man," I tell him, while trying not to laugh hysterically since he asked in such a matter-of-fact tone.

"That's okay," he says. "If I practice a lot, when I'm 61 I think I'll be able to do it."

And I don't doubt him. He's BFAB.

I really want to get him in some classes. I think we are going to go to the Jackson School of the Arts open house in a couple of weeks and see what they offer. I'm thinking he can't take a Hip-Hop class this young, which is a shame. I'd like to just be able to tell them that he's a Rock Star and can handle whatever they think he can't handle.

I love watching that kid dance. I hope and pray he maintains his intensity for it and applies that intensity to other areas of his life as well.

As one of the main characters in Step Up 3 says, "People dance because dance can change things. One move...can bring people together. One move...can make you believe like there's something more. One move...can set a whole generation free."

Here's to Gavin and others setting their generation free. It might just start with a little dancing in the kitchen.

BFAB. Born from a boombox.

Come Monday, It Won't Be Alright

8:22 am
Finally woke up. Thinking how nice it was that Dede was home after two nights away and that she got up with Bode...and Gavin. Maybe I should blog about that? Boring, no good.

10:37 am
The family divides and conquers. Gavin and I take the mall trip. Dede and B Frey take the Meijer trip. Maybe I should blog about shopping with your kids? Today's shopping uneventful though, no good.

12:06 pm
Make lunch for Gavin...leftover pizza and some cucumbers and pears. Interesting conversation, but I've already blogged about lunch convo with G. Repeats already? No good.

12:45 pm
I need a nap (sleeping in and not going to work really wears me out). Convince G to lay down. Start to read. G ticks me off so no reading. He falls asleep. I fall sleep. Maybe I should blog about how awesome he is? Old topic, no good. Suck.

2:34 pm
Wake up. Dede and Bode home. Move to couch. Bode's cranky so I offer to take him. He falls asleep on my chest; tiny fingers holding tight to the collar of my shirt. So sweet. Maybe I should blog about that? Has potential, keep in mind.

4:05 pm
Dede gone to school. Prepping pork chops. Check on Bode who is already eating tray that Dede made for him before he fell asleep on me earlier. Why didn't I see she gave him refried beans? He is a mess. I hate cleaning up messes. Maybe I should blog about things you do for your kids that you wouldn't do for anything else? I let G vomit on me once. That could be a funny sidebar. Not as promising as earlier idea, it's out.

6:27 pm
Gavin has iPod hooked to television and dancing like a fool. Tells me he is working on his walking handstand move. Bode standing against chair and bouncing up and down and nodding his head. Lovin' that those boys love music so much. Blog? Definitely has promise. I remember the first song Gavin danced to before he could even walk, Drinking Dark Whiskey. I'm pretty proud of how we encourage them to enjoy music. This could be the winner. Started the blog entry. Still thinking about Bode falling asleep on me though. Kids are such great cuddlers.


6:30 pm
Gavin's doing the worm. Tells me that one time when Lily was babysitting, he was doing the worm and "tooting all day, all day." Texted Lily. She remembers. Maybe I should blog about how we've had so many Rock Star babysitters and how important it is to choose Rock Star babysitters? So true, but could get long. Save that for the book. 

7:10 pm
Just put Bode down. Two straight nights without a bottle for him. Woohoo! Come downstairs. Gavin wants to watch Wheel of Fortune for his pre-bed TV show. Woohoo! So much better than Curious George. I used to watch Wheel of Fortune with my grandparents. Good memories. Blog? Probably not.

7:41 pm
Thought I got out of Curious George for the night, but G picks a very old Curious George book to read. Suck. George smokes a pipe in this book? That wouldn't fly if written today. Already did a book blog, no good.

7:51 pm
Gavin in bed. Tigers' time. Crap, forgot to set DVR up. Missed Delmon's home run in his first at-bat.

8:19 pm 
Gavin at top of steps. Complaining about mosquito bites. Too lazy to go upstairs and get anti-itch cream. Tell him to wrap himself so, so tight in his sheet and he won't feel them. Wow, it worked. He walks back into room. Maybe I should blog about some of my stupid ideas that turn out to be gems? If so, include cake-eating shorts.

8:59 pm
Gavin still not sleeping. "Can you come sleep with me one minute?" Tempting, but..."Why don't you come down here and lay with me?" Pause the Tigers.

9:02 pm
Wondering what is happening with Tigers. Turn it back on even though G still on my lap.

9:10 pm
Jim Thome hits his 600th home run. Well, he hit it three minutes ago, but I'm a little behind. Maybe I should start a sports blog tonight? Wife might kill me for wasting more time, no good.

9:12 pm
Now the other kid fell asleep on my chest today too. Listening to G breathe while asleep is so peaceful. Must be a sign. Scrap the music blog, write about the tender moments in parenting. Try not to tear up. Crap.

9:56 pm
Game over. Dede's home. Gotta get the blog written.

10:10 pm
Should I talk about co-sleeping in general too? 18.1 million results in 0.19 seconds when you Google it. People have strong feelings about it both ways, but I really don't. Ask Dede if it would be distasteful to include a Michael Jackson joke? She laughs which means it would be funny, but doesn't answer.

10:45 pm
Don't like what I've written so far. Setting it aside to spend the iTunes gift card Dede got in the mail today. Eric Church. Check. Miranda Lambert. Check. Maybe I should blog about how smokin' hot Miranda Lambert is?

11:01 pm
No closer to new blog entry. Listening to great new music though. I'm hungry. Dede finds a pumpkin roll in the back of the fridge. Score!

12:22 am
Everyone's asleep. Have eaten a bunch of junk from the fridge while trying to come up with blog ideas. Make mental note to try Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred tomorrow.

12:33 am
Wow, it's Tuesday. No blog for Monday I guess. Suck.

Single Parenting, Part 2: There's no crying in Blokus

Bode's down for the count. Gavin is playing with his new art desk that Nana bought him as a garage sale. I am finishing cleaning the kitchen. All is good.

"Wanna play a game, Daddy?" Gavin yells.

I love to play games. I am probably too competitive. I expect to be good at every single game I play, except Dance Dance Revolution. That game is in no way an accurate representation of one's dancing ability! I can kill it on a real dance floor.

Gavin wants to play Blokus. Ever since our friends Fil and Isis taught Gavin to play when they were babysitting the kids a couple of months ago, it is always his first choice. I like playing it with him because it is definitely a strategic game that requires some advanced level of thought. I tell him that it helps to exercise his brain.

But I've had a long night, so I decide that I just want to dominate Gavin, end the game quickly and get G to bed so I can watch the Tigers (which I had set up to DVR earlier during my Rock Star Dad phase, which by now seems like it has been days).

He plays the Blues and I play the Yellows on his suggestion because he thinks it will annoy me that we are playing Wolverine colors. It does, but I am in my phase of not letting him know it bothers me so that he will eventually drop that idea off a cliff and hopefully take all the Wolverine fans with him. No offense.

Despite really trying to beat him and not helping him with any moves at all, we play to a draw. I think it is nearly impossible to win outright when playing two players.

Apparently I am horrible dad because I have already made both my kids cry tonight, but I don't feel satisfied since I didn't win. Remember, super competitive.

I suggest we now play the hard version of the two player game where we both play two colors. I explain how it works with him playing a blue piece, then me playing a green piece, then he plays red, then I play yellow. He nods that he understands and I am confident this more difficult version will allow me to dominate him to the point that I feel will satisfy my game-charged ego.

This game takes much longer because Gavin fiddles and turns every piece each way, trying to get the best possible move. I think I have his reds completely blocked in, but he finds a way through. Eventually we both end up with about the same number of tiles left at the end when we are both unable to play. We start counting the little squares that make up the pieces. Whoever has less squares left wins. Gavin counts first: 44. I'm counting and quickly realize that I have not dominated him at all and may not even win. My final tally: 42. Two lousy little squares was all I won by.

I get emotional rather easily. I don't know when this first started, but the first time I clearly remember was when I was standing in the Breslin Center and Mateen Cleaves and Sweet Mo Pete kissed the Spartan S at center court after playing their final home game. I teared up. I get misty-eyed during movies. I cry when my tennis players walk off the court for the last time.

I wanted to cry when the Blokus game ended, but I held it in. I'm not sure if I wanted to cry because I couldn't obliterate my four-year-old son in a game of strategy, or if I wanted to cry because I was completely exhausted, or if I wanted to cry because I am constantly overwhelmed at how amazing that little man is. We are so incredibly blessed.

I read Gavin his books (One Witch and Easy Street), told him that I loved him for the twenty-third time in the last three hours, and took him to bed.

I turn the Tigers on and try to come off the emotional high I've been riding since dinnertime. Let's just say it's a good thing the Tigers won.

Single Parenting, Part 1: Chaos and crying

It was just the boys tonight and while I don't consider myself a real "planner," I usually make sure to have things in good order when I am single-parenting for any length of time. 

The "Rock Star Dad" look,
with Gavin in 2009

Early in the evening, I felt like Rock Star Dad. I worked with Gavin this afternoon to plan the menu for the next few days (if he has a say, he eats much better) and before we dropped Dede off at 5 pm for her weekend away, I already had everything laid out for dinner preparation when we returned.

I finish up the Mac and Cheese Chowder, add some fresh fruit to the plate, and walk it into the dining room for Gavin. He has already set the table, Bode is already eating and things are looking awesome! My confidence is rising by the second.

Then, and this is the point at which the night goes downhill for me, I notice Gavin has his index finger between the blades on his scissors. Stay cool, there was no trip to the ER. He simply was holding the scissors and his finger happened to be between the blades. The scissors weren't all the way open though; they were pretty tight to the skin.

Without raising my voice (but obviously with a very concerned look in my eyes), I say "No, no, no, no, no, no." I think the sixth one was what pushed the envelope. He looks at me, his head drops as he puts down the scissors, and then he looks back up.

Do you ever feel like life happens in slow motion? I see the eyes sink and moisten a bit first. Then comes just a hint of the lip quiver. Finally, full-fledged bawling. I feel terrible, but I still don't feel like I overreacted.

I pick him up and proceed to tell him "I love you" about 22 times and that I am not upset with him. I explain that while scissors are great and useful, they can also be dangerous and I was worried about him when I saw how he was playing with them. I threw a couple more "I love yous" in for good measure and he eventually returns to the table and eats like a champion.

I'm cleaning up the kitchen and starting to feel better about the evening, until Gavin comes in and says nonchalantly, "I think Bode pooped."

I take Bode upstairs while reassuring Gavin that I will not get poop on his bed since I'm going to use it to change Bode. Gavin sprints upstairs behind me to make sure I was joking.

Bode's on our bed now (Dede's side of course), and I open that diaper to a huge blob of dark chocolate fudge-colored poop. I'm not kidding. This was like the 90% cacao dark chocolate. Gavin bails immediately. I want to wail, but instead I say loudly, "Holy moly, Bode Frey."

Bode does not like the response and starts to cry. I already have this diaper open so I continue to work to change it while telling Bode "I love you" about 22 times and that I am not upset with him. I explain that while poop can be great and useful, it can also be dangerous and that I was worried about him when I saw what came out of his bum. I threw a couple more "I love yous" in for good measure and he eventually calms down, takes a bottle, and goes to bed.

But the evening isn't over...

Dolly Parton's Otters

Yesterday we came home and there was only one thing in the mailbox -- a book. This is not unusual as Gavin and Bode are both registered members of Dolly Parton's Imagination Library, a free program that sends one book per month to children from birth until age 5. In 2010, the program distributed 7.1 million books to kids in the United States, Canada and Great Britain! If your kids aren't already signed up for this program, you can register here.

Getting a book in the mailbox has become quite an event. Gavin loves flipping the book over to see if it is his name or Bode's, and it seems recently he actually finds more joy in being able to hand the book over to Bode. G absolutely adores his little brother.

This book was his own however. Normally we would have to immediately read the book, but yesterday's book, Take Care, Good Knight, had some competition because we had just come from the library where we checked out Gavin's favorite book, One Witch, for the seventeenth time (after the first 10, I think the library should just give it to you).

Every time he gets a book from Dolly though, I think back to A Lot of Otters. This was not only the worst book ever sent to us from Dolly, it may be THE WORST BOOK EVER WRITTEN (and that includes this gem). See for yourself in the video below:

Now, the part I didn't show in the video is that this book was dedicated To Pat, who I can only assume was Barbara Helen Berger's crack dealer. No one in a sober mind sits down and writes a book for kids that shows a baby in a cardboard box floating in the ocean. It also expects me as a parent to comforted by the fact that he was safe with a lot of cute, cuddly otters.

How cute and cuddly are otters? I did the research and not only have there been 39 otter attacks on humans, but an otter actually ate a dog in 2001 in Florida. It's supposedly (or "supposably" for the high-school-age crowd reading this) okay though because otters only attack if they are rabid or need to protect their pups. Isn't it reasonable to assume that if there are, and I quote, "a lot of otters," that there is a pretty good chance that one might have rabies or pups? In fact, the cover of the book shows an otter holding onto a pup!

I'm two paragraphs into the analysis now and I haven't even touched on the fact that these otters "taste" the star-tears of Mother Moon and rub them all over their bodies. I'm going to leave that one alone even though I would like to do a Tosh-style video breakdown of those couple of pages.

After reading some reviews on Amazon, most people think this is a lovely story about the fact that it is okay to be separated and no matter where you are, your mother is with you. I think that there are a lot of people who missed the "This is your brain on drugs" commercial during all those ABC after-school specials.

D'oh

I was going to blog today, but I just got stung by a bee mowing the lawn (the bee wasn't mowing the lawn, I was, but I'm not going to take the time to rewrite that).

Since I'm semi-allergic to bees, Dede made me take three Benadryl. I am going to be falling asleep very soon.

Tomorrow's blog will either be "Dolly Parton's Otters" or "Missed Opportunity in Park to Display My Massive Parenting Knowledge and Promote My Blog."

Vote below. (I have great video for Dolly Parton's Otters but I am struggling to get it to load.)

Not Cirque du Soleil, but Circ de Bode

Let me just get this out there, so that I don't have to answer questions later: Bode was born with a small penis. Boom! 

No big deal, right? He was also born with small fingers, toes and ears too. Apparently though, his penis was so small our pediatrician didn't feel comfortable circumcising him at the time for fear of cutting the whole thing off. I'm exaggerating of course, but he did say it was a little small and it would be advisable to just wait until he was a year old and do it then.

Gavin was circumcised before we left the hospital and has a fantastic circumcision. That might sound odd, but I mention it because a couple of different doctors over the course of his first year mentioned how nice the circumcision was and always asked who performed it. I didn't know there was such an appreciation for good circumcisions. It was almost as if they were in awe of the doctor (who was so relevant to me that I don't even remember the name). I can just imagine the conversation the next time one of these fans saw that doctor.

"I had the Rush baby in the office today. That was one fantastic circumcision."

"I know; we were high-fiving in the room after that one. The nurse even threw her bra at me."

Both doctors fist bump. "Boom!"

Circumcisions for 14-month-old infants are quite different than circumcisions for two-day-old babies. It's more of a surgical procedure because the infants must be fully anesthetized and require stitches. Plus, I'm not even going to get into the massive scheduling screw-up today at the hospital that caused a lengthy delay because then I would write 10,000 words of vitriol.

The thought of knocking your kid unconscious to perform surgery probably scares a lot of parents. Initially, I thought it wasn't a big deal at all. I had head surgery when I was 18 months old because my soft spot didn't close correctly. They sliced open the top of my head from ear to ear, rearranged some bones and stitched me back up. I wore a helmet for about a year-and-a-half and turned out relatively fine, other than the fact if I shave my head I would look like a Klingon.

But the few memories I have of those times are as the child in the equation. I realize now being the parent is a whole different story. My parents were probably terrified that they were going to split open the head of their child. I wouldn't say I was terrified or even scared when they took Bode away, but I did have a healthy appreciation for the risks, however minor, that were involved. I didn't tell the doctor there was extra pressure to live up to the rock star circumcision his older brother has.

Bode did great today, even though he woke up hungrier than Bill Freehan. He was a little cranky this afternoon and evening, but no crankier than anyone else who wakes up out of the blue with a bandaged penis. 

Even with the surgery, getting Bode "cirked" was still the correct decision for our family. Gavin is very Type-A and it is important that things match. Every morning when he takes his gummy vitamins, they have to be the same color. He picks out two yellow ones, says Match-Match and pops them in his mouth. When he picks out pajamas, the right top has to go with the right bottoms. Match-Match. So I know the circumcision was the right call.

Bode's penis. Gavin's penis. Match-Match. Boom!

Like father, like son

So I realize this is two posts in a matter of minutes, but I couldn't resist.

Do you ever have those moments when you realize that without a doubt your child is definitely your child?

When I was a kid, I would stall going upstairs to bed by doing something ridiculous to make my dad laugh. The one I remember most was I would float my arms out side to side, obnoxiously singing "Do the hula...to win some moola." My dad would want to scream at me, but he could never stop laughing long enough to. I would sprint back up the stairs as my mom came running because she just didn't find me nearly as humorous.

Gavin has been in bed for about 20 minutes and is obviously struggling to fall asleep. He already asked for some water and came out and turned the hallway light off.

Then, he came to the top of the steps, called for me and said "Dad, something is wrong with my shorts."

I wander from the computer over to the bottom of the steps and he has his shorts pulled all the way up to his shoulders and the biggest grin you can imagine.

I'm still laughing and he still isn't asleep.

"Why do all the people at Walgreens have bad manners?"

Gavin just randomly popped that question at lunch today while we he was drilling some fish sticks, macaroni and cheese, grapes, carrots and cucumbers. It sounds like a pretty random assortment, but we have been focusing with him on making sure he has all his food groups with each meal and have empowered him to choose his own lunch as long as he hits all groups. He still struggles with understanding grains, but each day gets a little better. It was especially confusing the night we ate tamales and had to explain that corn could be a vegetable or a grain.

I started with Walgreens though and this is one of the few times that I know both the history and the answer to one of his questions. I had no idea where to even start the time he asked me why God never lets him like pickles.

We used to get our prescriptions at Walgreens and for some reason Gavin had this odd fascination with the place even though we rarely went in. Several months ago, we switched pharmacies because Walgreens always had a long line, they moved at the speed of the Comcast turtles, and frankly, they weren't very nice (other than the Goth chica that I actually grew to like after I got past staring at her black lipstick).

I told him though they didn't all have bad manners, they just weren't extra nice either. He seemed satisfied, but wasn't done.

"Let's talk about stores, grocery stores and restaurants," he proffers. Well, as much as a four-year-old can "proffer," but that word popped into my head and I'm rolling with it.

I tell him I'm game and ask his favorite restaurant.

"Wendy's."

I'm not exactly shocked. Favorite grocery store?

"Walmart."

I know this not to be true, but while I'm pondering whether to examine further, he continues. "They have Scooby Doo fruit snacks there, and can we go look at them right now even though we can't purchase them?" (I love when he says purchase).

See, Scooby Doo is Betty Crocker brand and he knows we can only buy "the K kind."

I'm enjoying this conversation, but I ignore the question and instead check the validity of his answer.

"What about Sam's?"

There are a few things that instantly make Gavin's face light up -- hearing the first few bars of Summer of 69 start on his iPod, running through sprinklers, and any mention of Sam's Club.

"Oooh, you're right Daddy," he beams with words I could definitely get used to hearing.

At this point, Bode farts very loudly (he is on laxatives for extreme constipation) and I know any chance of semi-intelligent conversation is over.

We all just wanna be big rock stars

I fell down the stairs in the middle of the night and sort of dropped Gavin when he was about a week old. Dede accidentally dropped a can of tomato sauce on Bode's head when he was maybe two weeks old. You learn quickly that babies are durable. I wouldn't put that to the test intentionally; just rely on tons of circumstantial evidence that supports it.

I think I dropped Gavin, but it's a bit fuzzy because a minute earlier I had been deep in sleep with my recurring dream about playing right field at old Tiger Stadium. Every time a fly ball would head toward me, it would hit the third deck and I wouldn't have the opportunity to catch it. I'm sure someone who analyzes dreams would tell me I have some deep-rooted issues that stem from some sort of repressed childhood memory, but I accept my lunacy on the surface and don't feel a need to dig deeper.

I was going to tell the story about Gavin as the intro to the book I envisioned a couple of years ago with the working title...Raising a Rock Star. It was going to be a mix of funny human interest stories with some parenting ideas mixed in. I put together a rather elaborate outline and had every intention of it being huge and ending up on Ellen with Gavin singing "...so we put on a little George Jones and just sang alooonnnggg." I'd then choose to be a Coke-guzzling, Kellogg's-fruit-snack-eating full-time author and stay-at-home dad. (Can you tell I'm working on my product placement in case there really is a dream to hold onto?)

I never got beyond the outline phase and then all of sudden Bode came along. I know women are cringing at that "all of a sudden" -- like he just magically slid out one day. Either way, we're now Raising Two Rock Stars and I'm a blogger instead of an author.

I use Rock Star as an adjective AND a noun. I want them to be Rock Stars in whatever path they pursue. They can be Rock Star Chefs or Rock Star Musicians or Rock Star Soccer Players or Rock Star Journalists or Rock Star Teachers or Rock Star Physicists or Rock Star Hip Hop Dancers (G is currently watching Step Up 3 for the tenth time this week).

It's a little frightening, but I'd even be fine if they chose to be Rock Star Rock Stars -- as long as they take Dede's health class and understand how horrible some of those STDs can be.

Where are we?

Do you ever look at a photo and wonder what led to that photo being taken?

This photo was about eight and a half years in the making including, but not limited to: a friend/colleague living vicariously through my night life, a stolen business card, a very funny intro email, a yellow turtleneck sweater, a lot of Mountie basketball, Allegra and Rhinocort, a duplex, a tiny house, a 95 degree wedding, a big party featuring a shark dance, a couple bad jobs, me losing some marbles, a failed attempt at going back to school, a planned pregnancy, a bigger house, a long and painful labor, a baby (Axel in utero; Gavin on the outer world), a winter with very little heat, less Mountie basketball, a summer with very little cool, crawling baby, walking and dancing infant, talking and singing toddler, a couple relatively straightforward years, varying degrees of Mountie basketball, one loud curse word announcing an unplanned pregnancy, a bold blue makeshift nursery, a few tornado warnings during labor, another baby (Lester Holt in utero; Bode on the outer world), being blessed and happy to have two beautiful, healthy boys, a summer of travelling with a tiny baby and very active 3-year-old, Dede losing some marbles, even less Mountie basketball, a rainy spring, the realization that we haven't formally documented our family of four, a few messages to Patience Z, a first birthday party for B Frey, an elaborate plan to have coordinated outfits, some bribing of the older child to smile but not fake smile, and finally...some encouragement from the photographer to act like we are very much in love. We are.

That's the story of that photo.

I'll explain the Blog Title tomorrow.