As a blogger, I have officially arrived.

A blog that I often visit, Dad Gone Mad, had post called Big Big Stars where he invited all readers and visitors to his blog to post links to their blogs, thereby encouraging them to meet, greet, and be sweet in the blogosphere.

Not to be outdone, Dee Dee at Random Daily Ramblings has put together a list of everyone who visited and left their blog addresses. She sent me a note after visiting me, saying, “I’ve posted a complete list of everyone who left their blog link on his Big Big Stars post in a post of my own called Blog Rolling With My Homies over on my blog, so if you want to see it come on over and sit a spell. ” How she found the time to do this is beyond me. I can’t even sit on the toilet without an audience and a standing ovation. In any event, I made the list! Woo-hooo! I’ve had visitors and it’s been very exciting. I’m loving the love being shown.

But wait, there’s more. I visited another blogger, BackPacking Dad, and he brought us up to speed on the goings and comings with this list. Evidently, Heather, whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, has challenged Dee Dee to visit and comment on all members of the list. Dee Dee accepted on the condition that Heather do the same. BPD took it one step further, and actually finished the list. Says BPD, “It took days, and my daughter has been in the same diaper since Thursday, and I think she’s had to teach herself to cook, and my wife has since fled to Seattle and Chicago in succession.“

Yeah, that sounds about right. Ohhh, to read the list. Seriously, it’s like the equivalent of an internet white glove has been thrown on the ground and bloggers everywhere are saying, “Aha! I challenge you to a duel” — of course in this fantasy of mine, the accents are French, so challenge sounds more like “shall-lawnge” and duel sounds like “dew-ell”.

BPD was talking about having someone design some badges for our blogs saying, “I’m on the List” or “I Completed the List”. I SO want one of those. I’m such a taggie/gidget/gadget junkie. Until I can squeeze out some copious free time (read: laundry, dinner, diaper changing, baths, and all other domestic responsibilities can suck it while I sit at the computer), the speed through which I get through the list probably can’t be measured in any perceptible units. No matter, I’m looking forward meeting and greeting.

The List is out there, people, and the blog is open.

I was reading Dad Gone Mad today, and DGM was talking about fan mail and his fan letter to the Fonz. Thankfully, I am old enough to know who the Fonz is. I’m sure there are people that run in my social circles who don’t know who the Fonz is, and I’d put money on that. But I digress. DSM was talking about writing fan letters, and posed the following questions, “When was the last time you wrote a fan letter? When was the last time you told someone how much their work means to you? If you were going to write a piece of fan mail today, to whom would you write it?” And of course, me having the attention span of a fruit fly, simply read and answered the first question.

When was the last time you wrote a fan letter?
I wrote a letter to Mike Tyson when he was at the height of his boxing career and married to Robin Givens. I know, I know — WTF? I had to have been like, 10 years old. I can’t even begin to guess what I wrote in that letter. I’m sure it was a request for an autograph, but I probably wasn’t with it enough to ask for some tickets to a match or something. Hey, we lived in NJ at the time, same as “Iron” Mike, and I thought, “I bet he’ll invite me over to his mansion for dinner!” Yeah, what did I know. I do remember that I got an 8×10 autographed glossy in the mail, which I promptly lost. Still, I have the memory *sniff, sniff*.

For you, my dear readers, I shall answer the other two questions.

When was the last time you told someone how much their work means to you?
Probably this side of never. I’m not one to fawn or fuss all over people, especially now that I’m older. If I am really moved by something and happen to see the artist, I’ll say to them how much I enjoyed their work. That’s about it. I’m constantly telling Mo how I love her use of the orange crayon when she draws concentric circles over Elmo’s face in her coloring book.

If you were going to write a piece of fan mail today, to whom would you write it?
That’s a toughie. I have my simple Hollywood crushes (hellooooooo, Wentworth Miller), but in terms of being someone’s biggest fan? Don’t really have anyone coming to mind. I will say that I admire the work of several authors, photographers, TV personalities, but I don’t see myself breaking out the nice stationery and stamps. Besides, my lifetime appointment as President, CEO, CFO, and all around Chief-High-Priestess-Number-One-Biggest-Fan of the Mo and Co Super Fan club prohibits me from making any solicitations to any non Mo and Co Super Fan Club members.

After dinner, where she had two helpings of chicken, rice pilaf and green beans all washed down with a glass of milk, Morgan has a Popsicle. The blue Popsicle makes her look like she’s been eating Smurfs by the bucketful. She asks for more milk. She sees Craig eating some cashews and asks for some cashews. She runs off to get her coloring books, and then quickly changes trajectory towards Coever laying on the floor. We think she’s going to jump on her sister or whack her with the rattle that Coever has in her spitty little hands, but before we can open our mouths to shout a warning, she’s off again. Morgan draws up short before whirling around and running to Craig for more cashews. This happens like three more times before he puts a stop to it. It’s his snack after all.

I say to Morgan, “Are you serious with this? Where are you putting all this food?”

Morgan looks at me. “In my mouth,” she deadpans.

*****

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
by Morgan

One, two
Buckle my shoe

Three, four
Shut the door, but I would like to keep it open

Five, six
Lay it down

Seven, eight
Lay it straight

Nine, ten
I’mma do it again

I put the girls down for a nap and manage to squeeze one out for myself. I’m dreaming, I know, because the things I’m seeing don’t quite make sense. Disjointed images and disjointed sounds. High pitches squeals and suddenly my eyes flap open. The images dissipate, but the squealing continues. I rush to Mo’s room, throw open the door and there is my first born child. Buck naked save a do-rag to preserve the carefully parted dozen of pigtails I labored over this morning.

I ask her, “What’s wrong?”

“I was calling you,” she says.

“Yes, are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you naked?” I ask, praying there aren’t any surprises to found in the crib as I pick up the diaper.

“Because I was sleeping.” Her eyes say, Duh, Mommy.

****

We’re sitting on the sofa having some hugs and loves (a.k.a cuddles). Mo is all up in my face and her breath is kicking. So of course, I tell her so.

“My breath isn’t kicking,” she says, pronouncing each word so well, I’m wondering when she has had time for elocution lessons.

“Your breath is humming,” I say.

“Hmmmmmmm,” she says.

Indeed, indeed.

So we’re having dinner at my parents house last night, and everyone is feeling full and fine. Mo has been running amok all afternoon, fueled by peanuts courtesy of Pop-Pop, bedecked in jazz recital costumes from Yia–Yia, and just the general giddiness that comes from being two and a half.

We’re potty training again, coming to the end of week two, and she’s doing really well. Craig and I are on her like white on rice with the constant, “How are your pants?”, “Is pee pee coming?”, “Is poo poo coming?”, “Why don’t we go sit on the potty?” and so forth. Ever so polite, she always tells us, “No thank you, no thank you,” but we insist and head off to the potty to shower her with praise, stickers, the occasion piece of donut/several M&Ms/a Popsicle — generally whatever it takes to show her how pleased we are that any drips and drops of peeps made it into the pot.

After dinner, she’s jet propelled having eaten chicken wings, spaghetti, crusty bread she has all but bathed into the olive oil and spice blend my dad has set on the table. She’s burping up the sparkling lemon water and laughing at herself before excusing herself to chase after the dog with an extra tutu for Sage to wear.

After a while, she skids to a stop at my elbow, asking me for another dose of Little Einsteins, a video that she has already committed to memory and probably could recite verbatim if we left the picture on and the sound off.

Craig simply says, “In about 5 minutes, we’re going to go potty, okay?”

“No thank you”.

“Yes, Morgan, we’re going to try. But you have about 5 minutes,” and Craig holds up 5 fingers.

“Let’s watch a one video,” says Morgan, holding up one finger of her own.

I see where this is going, so I jump in. “How about you go pee pee in about 5 minutes, and then you can watch the video?”

I want to say that there’s a pause while she considers this option. I want to say that you can see the gears grinding and the smoke puffing out of her ears. I want to say that her little rosebud mouth is even pursed. But no. She looks at me and she says, “Let’s go pee pee now.”

Smart girl, that Morgan.

p.s. We did go pee-pee and she did it in the potty. Her reward? A short viewing of Tom & Jerry before we left for home.

HOLY KA-BEE-BEES!! Guess what?! You are never going to believe this!

You’re shocked, right? I know it, I know it. Pick your jaw up off the floor! I can’t even believe it! No where to be! No where to go! When does that EVER happen in this household? I can’t believe it! I sound like that guy selling concessions in Coming to America! — “I canNOT believe IT!”

What to do? What to do? Maybe we’ll paint our toenails, do arts and craps, who knows?! If I squint really hard, I think that there may be a viewing of “The Tale of the Bunny Picnic.” Classic, classic family entertainment. Maybe we’ll get wild and crazy and eat dinner for breakfast and breakfast for dinner. In the spirit of lazy day, I just may order in all of our meals! Maybe I’ll zip on over to Yia-Yia and Pop-Pop’s and mooch dinner off of them!

I’m just in such shock and awe that we have nothing planned. What to do? What to do? How about doing nothing. I’m going to finish this post and pack up the laptop. I’m going to turn off my cell phone after I place two calls that I’ve been putting off (hello, Well Baby check). I’m going to be IN THE MOMENT with Mo and Co and not worry that we’re going to be late for XYZ because we don’t have to be anywhere. I’m not going to worry about the laundry that has yet to be washed or folded, the dishes that need to be put away, or the dinner that has to be made — Craig’s out of town anyway. I’m feeling so reckless and lazy, I’m not even going to pick the toys up off the floor! WHOA!

I need a day like this, not just because we have been planned, scheduled, having to be somewhere five minutes ago since both of Mo and Co took their first breaths with their fully formed lungs, but because I’ve forgotten what it means to just be. I have been so wrapped up in making sure the girls are well rounded and entertained, making sure every minute of the day is accounted for from the time they wake-up until their little heads hit the beds, I’ve missed the important things. I’ve got to stop what I’m doing and just be there when Mo asks for hugs and loves instead of doing two things at once. I’m going to carry Co around and when she gets too heavy, I’ll switch arms and keep going. I’ve realized that if I don’t stop to breathe, to laze about and be with my girls, when I finally am ready, when I’ve dotted the last “i” and crossed the last “t”, they’ll be too big to pick up with any ease or too independent to want to spend some lazy time with Mom.

I’ve wasted far too much time doing something today. Time to do nothing.

Add the following:

1 — 7 month old, possibly teething, up at 3am, wailing like a banshe

1 — 2 1/2 year old, attempting potty training from wake-up to night time, sitting on the pot every half an hour and STILL wetting her pants in between

1 — 32 year old hubby with Montezuma’s Revenge all night from eating grocery store sushi (or may in this case it would be Tokugawa’s Revenge)

1 — 29 year old wife keeping everyone else clean, dry, fed and watered, who wants nothing more than a glass of Riesling and a big plate of French Fries with a side of buffalo sauce but will probably blow all of her WW points by doing so.

Combine with a generous helping of lack of sleep, malaise, impatience, and frustration. Let set over the course of the last day of the week-end and serve.