Wordless Wednesday: Meet Me at the Regal Beagle

My Latest Hang Up

You know how when you bring home all those teeny tiny itty bitty onesies and Jon-Jons that are so cute when your baby is the size of a sprinkle? You know how the outfits are so dang small that your husband couldn't wear them as mittens, much less snap the things? You know how you so gently washed them and folded and hung them on those precious little hangers that are impossibly adorable and fit for a pixie?

Remember how small they once were?

Being small equates to so much more than size. The utter smallness of a newborn son nestled in his Moses basket or better yet, upon your chest, is love and mortality and family and goodness at their finest. The simplicity of smallness. That smallness means miracle, responsibility, opportunity, potential, glory, dedication, future. That smallness is the starting line for the growth of a family and the bonding of a mother. The first drop of immense love that fills you up a thousand fold over. That smallness is larger than life.

And then they grow.

And grow.

I was almost awash in tears last night as I was putting away Bird's laundry. Yes, his laundry nearly drove me to tears. Granted, I hate laundry so it often drives me to whining hissy fits but this is not what I'm talking about. I caught a fat salty drop before it fell to my cheek. You see, Bird's teetering on the cusp of seven.

7. Years. Old.

His clothes aren't so small anymore. His clothes aren't even all that cute(sy) anymore. His shirts could pass as mine, and in fact, Mac Daddy often questions whose T-shirts are whose when he folds the laundry (Yes, I have a husband who folds laundry. I told you he is a keeper.). What made me weepy was that Bird's big boy clothes don't fit on the baby sized hangers anymore. Those tiny hangers that have been in his closet since the day we started stockpiling a baby wardrobe are now too small. My little Baby Bird is becoming a Big Bird. All that means to me is that he's slowly growing wings. To fly.

Away.

And all I can do is watch, beam, love, applaud.

And maybe shed a tear.

Fly, Bird, fly.

WRAL GoAskMom: I Get Around

While I might seem like a willy nilly blogger here at Dirt & Noise, I assure you I am no slacker. I've been writing at other places and have been too busy to even get the word out. It's ironic that I write about myself and am a marketer yet neglect to pimp myself effectively.

Don't hold it against me.

I'm contributing to WRAL's GoAskMom blog these days. Check out my post about eating out with kids here.

And if you want to read the weeks you missed, you can find them all here.

5:00 Fridays

First of all, I'd like to thank all 12 people reading my blog today. I realize March Madness is upon us. In hindsight, I realize that is precisely why Mac Daddy whisked me off to Charleston for a tenth anniversary surprise getaway last weekend. Points scored and subsequently redeemed for an inordinate number of hours perched in front of our old dusty TV following an orange ball bouncing from here to fro. I can't get past the lanky guys in ill fitting shorts who have massive pipes. Did boys have muscles like that when I was in college? I think not.

Couch therapy takes on a whole new meaning during March Madness. Pass the chips, man.

Basketball is more grunge less refined, right? It's a beer swilling sport for the most part. Then again, all sports are beer swilling sports. Well, not polo or horse racing, but I'm not talking country club and cotillion here. Mac Daddy is a slave to basketball. He evens follows my alma mater to keep me abreast of all that's (not) happening on the court in Hooville. Apparently my guys weren't on the bubble this year. They weren't in the same zip code as the bubble. There might have never even been a bubble.

In any case, because I'm not a bitter kind of girl, I'd like to celebrate the bubble today. A toast to those teams whose bubbles didn't burst (not that I know who they are).


The Bubble

2 ounces lychee juice
3 ounces dry champagne

Pour the lychee juice into a champagne glass and top with champagne. Leave the garnish out today. I mean really, you can only fancy up hoops so much.

Cheers to the Madness that is March!

So tell me, who'd you pick to go all the way?

Pavlov's Dog Redefined

I don't know much about old dogs and new tricks, but I do know a thing or two about new dogs and old tricks.

So we taught our dog Lark to ring a bell when he has to go to the bathroom. We had heard of such a trick but were naysayers. Truth be told, between my poo-pooing of great ideas that are not my own and Mac Daddy's contrarian cynicism, we are naysayers much of the time.

Lark has made believers out of us.

Because we adopted Lark just after Thanksgiving, we had jingle bells of all shapes and sizes and tones jing-a-linging all around us. Every store front and street corner were practically jingle bell rocking in jingly style. I bought some large brass bells tied to the tackiest of red velvet ropes adorned with a big ass red velvet bow. I suppose this doorknob accoutrement was meant for someone's front door, but for us it was perfectly suitable for the mudroom door that thankfully no one sees. There are certainly times I have poor taste, but tacky I am not.

And so we began to take Lark's paw and ever so gently tap the bell before we opened the door to take him out. He looked at us quizzically like we had bells for brains. We thought ourselves fruitcakes to even be trying such a trick. Yet even in the wee hours of drizzly sun up and sun down, we took his little paw and made that little bell ring-a-ling.

Fast forward several months.

Well hells bells! It worked.

Little pooch Lark rings the bells every time he has to potty. Even my kids, who can talk for cripe's sake, don't communicate their system flushing needs that well. This is how we ended up with poop on the dining room floor when Bird was two.

So now when we hear Lark ring the bell, we come running. Lickety split.

Who's Pavlov's dog now?

Wordless Wednesday: Active(ist).

Wake County School Board Has Me Fired Up...and Worried

Our school board has bullied, bushwhacked, and axed a wedge clear through the county, and it reeks of party line politics. I'm up in arms, fancying myself an activist these days. Read on to see what has me so irate.

Here's a hint: Diversity isn't just about color.