I'm Going to Graceland (Part 2)

Dear Little Trip,

After loading up on BBQ and pie, we finished up our drive to Memphis and despite Mama's amazingly bad memory for directions in the place she lived for 18 years, we arrived unscathed at Bebe and Poppy's. Your eyes immediately gleamed as you sized up the destruction potential in this new house, and the methodical molesting of all objects below 26 inches began.


These people feed me boo-boos too! And let me wreck their house!


And they have several fascinating ceiling fans. You can stare at them for HOURS.



Kentucky Derby on the TV, Mint Julep in my bottle, winning horsie under my legs. Life is good Bebe!

Mama and Dada gave Bebe and Poppy several chances to withdraw their offer to babysit, but before they could think it over too thoroughly, we headed out to the Beale Street Music Fest for a night of grown-up time (It still counts as grown up time if you check your cell phone every 5 minutes to make sure your parents have not called to say your child is either crying inconsolably or has ended up in the emergency room, no?). You made it the whole night in the portable crib (woohoo!) and slept straight through hours of thunderstorms and tornado sirens, even if the rest of us were up worrying we would awaken in a garden full of Munchkins and a yellow brick road.


Look, I learned a new skill in Memphis! I can take off my own D!


And I will run nekkid until you catch me.


And leave Desitin skid marks as a parting gift.

During a lull in the storms the next morning we headed over to see Mama's oldest friend Amy and her family, and you almost imploded when you saw the playroom full of trucks at their house. Never mind the Little Red Headed Girl and her Big Head. There were trucks to vroom, balls to roll and many, many other toys that must all be methodically removed from their spots, touched, and then discarded on the floor for the next new object.


This Little Red Headed Girl and her Big Head think I'm a doggie.

That night we brought in Commissary ribs and had a giant feast. I cannot tell you which Clifton was most excited about dinner, but all three of us were covered in dry rub and very happy at the end of the night. You went to bed and the rest of stayed up and prayed the house would once again remain on the ground while the tornado sirens blasted. Dada and Poppy analyzed the radar on TV while Mama and Bebe got their purses ready and all their diamond jewelry on, just in case we had to flee. Because outrunning a tornado is no problem. And you want to look your best if you need to run.


Another Clifton caves to the immense pleasure of Memphis BBQ.


Ten. I ate ten ribs.


Don't touch the zhoozher Poppy! I do it!

Needless to say we were not blown away by a tornado, and Sunday brought sunshine and the Franklin and O'Grady clans over for a lovely brunch. And when I say "lovely brunch," I mean eight Big Heads (four of the doting grandparent variety, four of the exhausted parent variety) trying to have a conversation and breakfast, and three rambunctious children hepped up on coffee cake and other assorted goodies running laps around the living room-dining room-kitchen circuit. You had a grand time sharing the toy horsie with the cute, Little Red Headed Girl (and by sharing I mean using every bit of your toddler wits to find a way to get her off that horse so you could ride it again) and bursting into random fits of applause whenever there was a moment of semi-quiet. Probably the four grandparents were having wistful memories of when your mama and Amy had shared so many play dates as children, seeing as they are each others oldest friends. Or maybe they were quietly watching us chase our sticky, hyper rugrats around while they leisurely sipped coffee and thought "It's payback time ladies!"


We used to play with little Barbies. Now we play with little Barbarians.


The Little Red Headed Girl pleads her case for a chance on the horsie.


Offers glimpse of undies as persuasive technique.


Undie peek unsuccessful; moves to forceful threats.


Threats fall on deaf ears; pulls out emotional longing card.


Emotional longing by Little Red Headed Girl fails. Smug toddler ride triumphantly into the sunset.


We headed back to Little Rock the next day and had an almost relaxing dinner with Jerry, Trish and Baby Jack. You ran laps around whatever parts of their house were accessible, touched all of Jack's books and toys four times, and made Chopper the dog sorry he hadn't just stayed outside with the mosquitoes. Then you sucked down about three pieces of mushroom pizza and passed out the second we got you in your car seat. We all pretty much jumped in bed as soon as we got back to Allan and Laura's house, two thirds of us saying extra prayers that the other third of us would sleep a lot on the flights home the next day.




Trip tries to eat pizza. Jack tries to eat Trip.


You hiding some mushrooms in those cheeks?

Flight home synopsis: Flirt with passenger who was convinced you were a girl despite being dressed in head to toe blue > Insist on trying Dada's bubbly water over and over even though the bubbles were clearly yucky in your mouth > Suck down both bottles Mama had brought by the hallway point > Cry at not being allowed to roam freely on plane and touch all passengers in aisle seats > Almost fall asleep ten times only to have chatty flight attendant interrupt with the exciting beverage selection choices and frequent flier program details > Make a dooker about 20 minutes before we land.

Go ahead and call us bad parents. We decided not to change you until we were in the airport. Turbulence + wiggly toddler who must touch everything + airplane bathroom that is coated in germs = baby who must sit with dooker in diaper for 20 minutes at ten thousand feet.


We had ourselves a great vacation. Next time we might actually take you to Graceland. I can already see you slip under the ropes in the Jungle Room, so that you can roll around in the shag carpet.

I'm Going to Graceland (Part 1)

Dear Little Trip,

Either because we really missed our Southern family or because we have slightly masochistic tendencies, we thought it would be fun to hop on a plane and fly across the country this month. We've done this baby on an airplane thing before, but last time you hadn't quite figured out how to actually propel yourself in any meaningful way and now, of course you are personally offended if not allowed to run in eleven different directions in a span of 4.9 seconds. But since we are too uncool to live dangerously in any other exciting way these days, the airplane thing almost seemed like a fun challenge. Almost.

It is too bad that despite your love of airplanes you had no idea that you were actually on one once we boarded. But there were a host of shiny new objects to play with and poke, and many passengers to flirt with. Mama had a giant bag of new toys and chatchkies to entice you with and as expected, the plastic cup from Dada's drink was the best part of the ride for you.


You can tell he knows he could make the whole plane load of people sorry they took this flight if wanted to.

After an epic battle of Dada vs. the car rental lady over her attempted denial of a Chevy Impala to us (Dada victorious), and a an even more epic battle of Dada vs. the car seat (car seat victorious), we made it to Uncle Allan and Aunt Laura's house. And by house, I mean large-house-full-of-unfortunately-low-placed-decorative-items-that-call-lovingly-to-inquisitive-one-year-old. You got busy destroying anything within your reach, while remembering to smile at these unsuspecting nice people who actually believed they did a little child-proofing. Well maybe they did. But child-proofing and Trip-proofing are not of the same world. Not really the same stratosphere actually. By the end of the first night you had a bloody fat lip, but you went to bed fed, bathed and happy. Until you started crying an hour later. Mama gave up right away and brought you into our bed, where you preformed calisthenics all night and kicked each parent in the head on alternating hours.

The next day Aunt Laura became your new favorite person ever by feeding you blueberries and chocolate chip pancakes, and then we headed to Hot Springs to see Gran, Big Daddy, Mema and Papa. We had a yummy lunch at the country club, where a plethora of sweet, if slightly blue haired ladies came to dote on you, and Gran happily fed you lunch and chased you around some golf carts.


Four generations! Thank goodness Papa has the life experience to know that toddlers need to explore everything. Everything.


Gran, I am going to touch every surface on this tiny car. Twice.

After lunch we went back to Mema and Papa's house, and Gran and Mema fretted over letting the pugs in, hoping they wouldn't scare you too much with their jumping and barking. It took about three minutes before you were the one chasing the dogs, and about three more before the dogs were desperately looking for a piece of furniture high enough to escape your probing hands. Mama watched blissfully as Gran chased you around the house and yard for a few hours, fed you copious amounts of blueberries and showered you with trucks and cars and other toys. Everyone was sad it was such a short visit, but maybe the four of them were secretly just a little bit glad to have some quiet after the storm that is you!


Wait...what do you mean we all have the same name? You guys are blowing my mind....


Probably dismantling some small, priceless, family heirloom while the two pugs cower in fear.


You're smiling now Gran, but you are going to be so tired in three hours!


Big Daddy's face suffers the same probing fate as Papa's.



Let the home wrecking begin!


Max is checking out the fresh diaper smell, I am just sure of it.


Eating is hard with a busted lip. But I make an exception for "boo boos" (blueberries).

We had an awesome dinner with Jerry, Trish, Baby Jack and Steffie, Miri and Jason back at The-House-of-Tantalizing-Objects-In-My-Reach, and you went two for two by loving on a concrete dog statue too hard and scraping your chin. You spent another lovely hour in the crib Allan and Laura had struggled to set up before kindly screaming your lungs out to Mama and Dada to come and get you so that bed calisthenics could commence once again.


Mama fails at convincing family that this is the first time you have ever had a Cheeto.


You do little to bolster my case.


It is highly possible that Jack already outweighs you. And plans to eat you for dinner.


Seriously, it is always my kid that's throwing the whole thing off. You can't make this stuff up, people.

We drove to Memphis the next day and made a mandatory stop at Craig's BBQ in Brinkley. Craig's is about as old as Arkansas, and it is possible they have never cleaned the floor. This is only a problem if you have a one year old who likes to bend over and run his grubby fingers on said floor before promptly inserting grubby fingers in his mouth. We had some yummy sandwiches and admired all the truck drivers who came in, and we all got very excited every time we heard a truck drive by. Every. Single. Time.


BBQ Fest 2010: Let the games begin!


Dada's eyes roll back in chopped pork bliss. Trip scores a little sauce off Dada's face.


No Mama, this is definitely baby proofed! It says right here in fine print that babies should stick their fingers in it.

Then, my little friend, it was TIME FOR PIE!!! This little corner of Arkansas has a wonderfully disproportionate representation of pie ladies. We restrained ourselves and only visited two.


Miss Lena initiates you into the world of Southern Pie.


But Miss Mary scores a lifelong devotee by putting the blessed word "fried" in front of "pie." You try to convince her to adopt you. She, however, has heard all about you and gently but firmly passes you back to your Mama. And then she slips me an extra fried pie.


And the loving of lard and apricots begins...


Mama is just making sure it's not too hot.

The Wheels on the Bus

Dear Little Trip,

Your current obsession is all things truck, bus and fire engine. We read the truck books over and over and over (and over). Or maybe "read" is the wrong word. We don't actually have time to read the text because you are too excited to stay on one page long enough. What we do is turn each page, enthuse, "Ohhhh...fire truck!!" You grin, bounce up and down and rush to turn the page to see the next vehicle. And every walk and car ride is punctuated by squeals at everything with a motor. Not too long ago Oma and Opa had the brilliant idea to take you on a bus ride when they were babysitting. They sat you right behind the driver and apparently you were so in awe you pretty much sat there with your mouth agape the entire time. Some grandparents take their grand kids to Disneyland. You, my little friend, are riding the Muni bus across town to the rich kid's playground.


Oh Holy Heaven....I am going on a bus!!


This is my golden ticket!



Diving right in...


Construction equipment? Almost as good as a bus!


Bus ride home was clearly not as exhilarating as bus ride there.

We continue to take a lot of rides in the Little Red Plastic Car. It has not lost its shiny appeal even a little bit. I usually wheel you around for a bit and then let you out so you can frolic in the park. And by frolic in the park I mean glance briefly at any signs of nature before returning to push the beloved Little Red Plastic Car. I thought I'd let you go for awhile to see how far you'd get before you would get scared and come back to me. It was not good for my ego. The Little Red Plastic Car, however, was thrilled.


I'll be back, Mama. Tomorrow.


A round of applause for the Little Red Plastic Car.


Don't even look at my Little Red Plastic Car that way, woman.


To Mama it looks like a bug infested, sticky, rotting tree crevice. To you it is apparently an inviting little Hobbit hole.

Back at the house, favorite pastimes still include lots of nekkie time and playing with the stinky diaper bags (fondly known as D-Bags in our house). I appreciate that the crinkly plastic of these bags is appealing and that they are heavy enough to make you feel like carrying them is an accomplishment, but I hope you lose interest in this habit before you are potty trained. Or if you don't, perhaps you could at least stop finding places to hide them while we aren't looking.


Who wouldn't grocery shop naked if they could?


It's possible you make an extra poop just so you can carry around an extra D-Bag every day.


I'll just hide this right here with the pots and pans.


And shove it waaaay back there so my Big Heads won't notice.

When you are not sneaking D Bags into crevices, you still love a little play time in the fridge or freezer. Woe is the parent who makes the mistake of opening either of the stainless steel doors to toddler nirvana while you are in the kitchen. This morning I was happily preparing breakfast when I glanced over and saw you holding a 25 dolar jug of maple syrup sideways. And a puddle of syrup glistened next to you on the carpet. I am pretty sure the carpet will still be sticky when you head off for college, but I scrubbed you (and the carpet) as best I could and on we went with our day. Imagine Dada's surprise when he opened the fridge this afternoon.


Maybe we'll just dip our waffles in the fridge door?


Dear Nap Time, Mama loves you.