Abby's (defiant) language skills

Language is a way to gauge progression amongst kids, but I think it should also be noted when a child is smug in the face of language prompting.

Case in point:

• When I ask Abby to say, "Mama," she gets a wide smile on her face and pauses before she starts with, "dada ... dada ... DADADA."
   
• Abby's first word was "Bert." The child will not say "Ernie." She knows which one is Ernie. In fact, Ernie is her preference. She will say "Bert" until the cows come home. Instead of "Ernie" she laughs like Ernie. "Hee ... hee ... hee ... hee ..."
   
• I have repeated certain words for Abby over and over again hoping she'd pick them up. She hasn't. I think I've said, "uh oh" approximately 1,000,000 times since her birth. Has the child EVER said "uh oh"? Of course not. She hasn't even said anything that resembles "uh oh."
  
  But somehow, she has managed to figure out on her own how to say "cat." I say it's on her own because I have been trying to get her to say "kitty." That's all I use. But she says "cat."

Tom = unable to decipher shirts from pants

Me: "I'm going to rip you."

Tom (dryly): "You're going to rip me."

Me: "Yeah. On the blog. You told me to."

Tom: "About what."

Me: "The fact that you can't put Abby's clothes in the proper drawers."

Tom: "Whatever. The one drawer is pants, shorts and shirts ..."

Me: "No. The drawer is just pants."

Tom: "There were shirts in there!"

Me: "Because you put them in there."

Tom: "No I didn't!"

Me: "Yes ... you did."

Tom: "Whatever."

This is coming from a man who (literally) organizes the shirts in his closet by color and sleeve length. And don't even get me started on his sock drawer.

But he can't figure out that dresses go in the closet, pants in one drawer and shirts in the other.

Maybe he doesn't speak girl. I guess that's not such a bad thing.

'Would you like to write in her baby book?'

Me to Tom: "Would you like to write in her baby book?"

Tom (watching MLB playoffs): "Now?"

Me: "Not necessarily. Just in general."

Tom: "Uh, yeah."

Me: "Well, it's been a year minus three days, so I was just curious."

Tom (laughing): "Yeah, maybe 'Happy Birthday' and we can laugh about it when she's 18."

One of these things is not like the other ...

Snacks Abby had in the car today:

• Mum mum
• Puffs
• Magenta sock

You know that point when you realize you sound ridiculous?

I'm sure this happens to many people.

You're asleep, in the midst of an awful nightmare. You finally wake up and you're shaking because you're so terrified. You wake up your husband just to get a grasp on reality. Then you start to recount your nightmare.

When you start to say it out loud, it doesn't sound so bad. It really stops being scary when you mention that you were hanging out with Dora the Explorer and The Cat in the Hat.

Point being, those dreams feel so much scarier when you're actually asleep. Once you talk about it out loud, it loses its fear factor.

Well, today I got home after a relatively long day and Tom had made dinner for all of us. It was such a relief - I was very hungry and Abby was ready to eat as well.

I sit down and fill my plate. It's then that I look down and see the pasta he made sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. I'm really not a fan of Parmesan cheese. In fact, I hate Parmesan cheese unless it's blended in with a meat or something like that where you can't really taste its pungency.

I can honestly say that in the seven and a half years Tom and I have been together, I have mentioned to him that I don't like Parmesan cheese at least a dozen times. He continues to sprinkle it on pasta.

I'm miffed. I start to pout.

Me: "Is there Parmesan cheese on this?"

Tom: "Yes."

Me: ::huff::

Tom: "What?"

Me: "I hate Parmesan cheese."

It was at this point that an utterly ridiculous conversation/argument ensued. We went back and forth.

Tom: "I saw Parmesan cheese on the counter last week! You asked me to get it for you! I know you like it!"

Me: "I used it for the turkey for Abby! I don't like it!"

That was when I came up with the ultimate (and unbelievably pathetic) statement.

Me: "I just see you remembering these things as a sign of love for me."

That's when Tom got really annoyed.

After he tried to make polite conversation, he finally said, "I mean, really? You're trying to tell me I don't love you because I put Parmesan cheese on the pasta?! Would you like me to make you new pasta? I can. I can make you Parmesan-cheese-free pasta."

Game, set, match, Tom.

I can now look back on this and laugh. And I will try to properly communicate my food preferences from here on out.

And don't think I won't weave in a dish I know Tom doesn't "care for" just to see how he handles it.

Poor Daddy

An example of Abby's hair in the morning.

Well, I think we've encountered the biggest source of stress since Abby was born: Tom had to do her hair this morning.

If you've seen photos of Abby shortly after waking up in the morning, you would know that she resembles Cousin It. Her hair is all sorts of crazy and it hangs in front of her eyes and it's quite the task to tame it.

I have the responsibility of doing her hair each morning and I typically put it in a ponytail on the top of her head (aka "The Pebbles Flinstone").

This morning, while at Ford Field for today's game, I received a panicked phone call from Tom.

Tom: "How do I do this?"

Me: "What do you mean?"

Abby's hair from today ... note the
different-colored barrettes.
And Tom did not put the hair tie in.

Tom: "I have five clips in her hair right now, but she keeps pulling them out. I know this seems funny, but it's really hard! I don't know how to figure this out."

It was a 5-10 minute phone call and Tom was just as frustrated at the end of the call as he was at the beginning - if not more so.

I'm not sure what Abby looks like as she heads to the U-M Men's Basketball team photo and I don't know if I'll ever know since Tom is refusing to send me a photo.

If you cross paths with Tom and Abby today, give him a hug. And make sure you tell him Abby's hair looks nice.

Tom relaxing equates to ceiling fan cleaning

I went to the gym and told Tom I wanted him to relax while I was gone.

I came home to him standing on our bed, wiping the dust from the blades of our ceiling fan.

Me: "I thought I told you to relax."

Tom: "I am relaxing."

Somehow, I believe him 100 percent.

Be very jealous, ladies.