Fun with Fire Alarms

As I was cooking dinner this evening, I set off the fire alarm. Because I'm that good.

The fire alarm is situated right between the two rooms where Abigail and Evangeline were napping.

NEITHER OF THEM WOKE UP.

Should I be worried, or just feel really really blessed? :)

Hazards of Parenthood

If you are a fervent admirer of my brother, Court, you've probably already read about his dumpster diving experience. For the benefit of the rest of you, I'll summarize: My mom entrusted to Court the Christmas stocking she had painstakingly designed, sewn, beaded, and embroidered for Evangeline, adjuring him to take good care of it and deliver it safely to me. You can imagine his horror when, on his way to our place for his birthday dinner, he couldn't find the stocking anywhere. After an exhaustive search, he was forced to conclude that someone had thrown it away. Disregarding his distaste, he dared the depths of the dumpster, digging through the discarded detritus until he discovered, despite delay, the decked out decoration. And it wasn't even dirty.

Well. This evening, on my way to go grocery shopping, I looked around for my phone. Considering we had given the apartment a thorough cleaning earlier in the day, it should have been easy to find. It wasn't. I searched, Regis searched. We checked the car, the creases of the couch, all pockets, Abby's room . . . . Nope. Finally, Regis wondered if it could have fallen into one of the storage totes he'd taken to our storage unit. As he went out the door to check, I half-jokingly suggested he call my phone and stand outside the dumpster, too, with Court's experience in mind. If you have any prescience at all, you know the rest. Evidently Abby, who has something of a passion for boxes, had dropped my phone into the empty box of baby wipes, which she then helped Regis carry out to the dumpster with the rest of the garbage.

So, as a warning to the rest of my family: If you can't find it anywhere, you know where to look.

It's in the Blood

Abby's paternal grandfather farmed for many years. (We designate him as Grandpapa, as opposed to her maternal grandfather, Grandmapa. Regis' grandmother is therefore Grandpapama to Abby, which we love.) His mother, Grandpapama, still herds cows on her property. Well, I don't think she actually does the herding, although it puts a smile on my face to imagine this fiesty, 80-something-year-old woman smacking a few cows around.

Last week, we took the girls to the Thanksgiving Point Farm Country, and Abby just had a BLAST. Stupidly, we forgot to bring the camera, so all we have to remember it by are some fuzzy pictures on Regis' phone. (If you know how we can download those, let me know.) However, we didn't repeat the error on Saturday when we took her to see my uncle Glenn's chickens, and she was similarly delighted to feed them bread and even collect the eggs. She got a little nervous inside the henhouse, what with the chickens clucking and sneaking around and the roosters chasing the hens, but she had a good time.

With that kind of influence from both sides, we expect her to be a full-fledged farmer in a few years.

Abigail and Evangeline

My Little Gourmand

So you think your child has strange eating habits? You've already heard about the bamboo shoots, but try these on for size: raw cubes of butternut squash, and plain fresh cilantro.

Yum yum!

I hate it when I have to eat my words. Unless, of course, those words are these: "Evangeline doesn't take naps!" "She doesn't put herself to sleep!" "And she doesn't sleep through the night! Waaaaaaah!"

In that case, every syllable is deeee-licious.

Shake Your Tail Feather