Many moons ago, before the little Bear joined us, I remember distinctly looking at moms with toddlers who were misbehaving in public and thinking, "Gosh, she's doing it all wrong. She should try [fill in the blank]. And would it kill her to brush her hair and put a little make-up on?"

As my friend Sonnya likes to say, "We were all great parents before we had kids."

Obviously, my thoughts have come back to bite me, never more evident than what happened yesterday afternoon.

I should have known we were off to a bad start. I have a head cold/cough/sore throat thing, so I've been trying to avoid being around other people's children. I decided that after Scotty's craptastic 90 minute nap, we were going to head the Springs Preserve for an afternoon of imposed quarantine for myself and some good energy-running activities for the Bear. Our membership had just run out, and I wanted to renew it again before it got too hot outside. And as you may recall from last year, the Springs Preserve is a gorgeous place and just perfect for kids.

And while Scotty (I think) is still just as cute when that picture was taken, he's incredibly more mobile.

More on that later.

Okay, started off in the kids exhibit. Oh wait, let's back up. I knew it was going to be a tough afternoon (nap not withstanding) when I offered Scotty his first M&M before we loaded up the bop-bop ("car," for you new readers). He loved it. LOVED it. It was like watching a crack addict take their first hit. He wanted more M&Ms, and he wanted them now. Based on the crazed look in his eyes, as he stood by the counter with his arms outstretched, I could tell he thought God put him on this earth to eat M&Ms. It was his right. He wanted and needed more M&Ms.  Now.

When I refused, he cried. And cried. He wailed all the way to the bop-bop, down our street, on to the 215, and was still hollering when we merged on to the 15. I wanted to slam my face into the steer wheel, but instead, I simply opted to crank up the radio to drown out the ruckus in the backseat.

Then he protested when I greased him up with sunscreen. The nice woman at the ticketing counter very graciously took all of my info verbally, since I was wrestling with the little wolverine and a tube of very slippery suncreen. Finaly, finally, we were finally in the park.

I was exhausted and it was only 35 minutes into the adventure.

Yay, Motherhood.

So we're in the kids area. I don't want to put it on the older kids who were there, but...well, they were throwing sand. And Scotty, #1 fan of Big Kids, started to imitate them. All of the mothers were on their kids immediately, and the sand-throwing stopped. Except for my child since he's still a little slow on the uptake of new info. So I chased him around, trying to prevent him from blinding another child, in the blazing hot sun while the minutes ticked slowly past.

Yes, blazing hot. It's not even April yet, and inexplicably, it felt like a furnace yesterday. There was no wind, little shade, and lots and lots of sun beating down on us. Scotty and I were red-faced and sweating within ten minutes.

I finally was able to cajole him to a different area (away from the naughty Big Kids) and he took it upon himself to take large handfuls of sand and smear it on my pants. Okay, he probably shouldn't have been doing this, but it was an upgrade from throwing the sand, so I took it. And he took great delight in getting me, my pants, and my sandals very, very dirty.

He's also developed this very covert way of biting me. Ever since the institution of the time-out, he hasn't taken a chomp out of my leg in weeks. But yet he somehow figured out that if he pretends to put something in his mouth, I will try to fish it out and wham! Gotcha, Momma. And I fall for it hook, line, and sinker.

So as we baked in the Nevada sun, covered in dirt, sand, and sweat, Scotty decided to play his little trick. Mind you, I'm hacking up a lung from all of this airborne dust and my hair is hanging in my eyes. I feel awful, look worse, and I'm just praying for it to be five o'clock soon. Brian had agreed to meet us for dinner at the cafe in the main building, and all I wanted to do was drench my aching throat in some fancy flavored ice tea and pass the child off to his other parent.

Scotty appeared to put something in his mouth, and I fall for it. He practically took off the tip of my index finger. And I just loose it. I mean, completely loose it. I went from zero to dunzo in about 1.2 seconds.

"DAMMIT SCOTT!" I holler. "CUT IT OUT!"

And every head in the playground swivels my way. And then, even worse, all of the heads turn politely turn downward, as to avoid eye contact with me.

Argh. I was that mom.

Despite my embrarrasment, I shot everyone a defiant look. I kept my head held high. It was as if to say, "Hey everyone. Judge all you want. You all know you've been here before. You're just happy it's me and not you. Well, it will be. One day. Mark my words."

And at that, I threw Scotty in the stroller (screaming, "TIME-OUT! TIME-OOOOOOOUT!" while he wailed and fought me. Klassy, I know) and we ran out of the children's area.

What happens next, I am not proud of. But it needs to be said.

I had no idea what to do with my child during a time-out not on our property. So I took him to the bathroom (I really had to go.) He's hollering, I'm still screaming, and we are making enough racket to raise the dead. Thankfully, no one else was in the restroom, so I push him into the farthest stall, lock the door, and put down the little paper toilet seat cover, all while we are both still yelling at each other and I am clearly not paying attention to what I'm doing.

I missed off the toilet.

And hit the floor. With my butt.

I was so busy yelling that I didn't see where my behind was headed.

At least it shut the kid up.

I think Scotty was so surprised to see Momma fall that he recoiled a little and then just blinked at me in silence. I managed to get back up and er, finish, without incident but my hip ached and my pride was far more wounded.

(Though I would like to thank the good people at the Springs Preserve for maintaining such clean bathrooms. The floor was sparkling and stall was downright lovely.)

We limped out of the restroom, and I set Scotty to play in the outside artificial grass area while I pulled myself together. He clearly had no issues with separating himself from Momma, as he took off for the stage. See the picture above? The cute one with my little foldable Bear? Well, this is the Bear at present day.

Can't see him? Yeah, neither can I.

He's little Mr. Independence lately, and since there was no one else around, I figured it was okay for him to be so far away. I could make out his little blond head bobbing in the distance, and quite honestly, we both needed a little space from one another.

After a bit, we headed to the library for some cool air. My watch only read 4:15pm and I was ready to do anything to make the time go by faster. Scotty took it upon himself to chuck some glass geos off their shelf and run between the aisles of books.

Between nasty glances from the librarian and her assistant, I attempted to plead with Scotty to read some books with me.

From the shelf, I selected an Eric Carle board book and one about counting desert animals. Mr. Independence ba-hooed my choices, and promptly went to the shelves to make his own selection. He came back (I kid you not), with "A Student's Guide to Biotechnology: Debatable Issues."

We didn't make it past the forward.

And just like that, Scotty was once again climbing on the chairs, throwing his sippy cup, and attempting to break semi-precious stones.

Is it five o'clock yet?

To make conversation (and take the attention off of my terrorist toddler), I asked the librarian's assistant what time the library closed. "Six pm," he said. He looked like a punky high school kid. "What about the cafe?" I asked. He snorted at me before answering.

"Three pm."

And that, folks, it how Brian and I ended up eating dinner at a questionable Applebee's on West Charleston on a Wednesday night. I was covered in dirt, all of my makeup had sweated off, and I was limping.

Moral of the story:  be nice to moms with misbehaving toddlers. It will be you one day.

Just a few moments ago, as I was putting him down for his nap, he said it. Finally.

At nineteen months, one week, and five days old, Scotty finally said, "Bear."

Except it sounded more like "beer."

Hee-hee.

Oh, and what a weekend it was.

So let's talk about the Gala:  Paint the Town Red.

Fabulous. Amazing. Over-the-top.

Really, it's a huge, epic production done on a shoe-string budget that brings in big names for a night of dinner and dancing at one of the most glamorous hotels in the world.

And we get to do it all over again, next year. Weeeee!

Due to some time constraints (read: Strip traffic), we had to hurry to get ready before our shift. Courtney and Deana donned BCBG for the night.

Sandy opted for Tadashi.

While I channeled my inner drag queen.

Seriously though, I loved my hair and my dress...but the makeup was a little much. In case you can't tell, that's plum eyeshadown swept all the way up to my eyebrows. I kept telling myself, "It'll be dark in the room, it'll look better once you put your dress on...everyone will be drunk."

Still, I felt a little self-conscious.

Good thing I wore comfortable shoes.

We looked a little conspicuous as we walked to the ballroom: four women in four different black cocktail dresses, super tall shoes, and lots and lots of bouncy hair. Interestingly, between the four of us, we have produced seven children. It was kind of like if the women of "Sex and the City" got married in their 20s, had kids in their 30s, and then joined a philanthropic women's organization. Hmm...okay, it's nothing like "Sex and the City." But walking in a line through a casino made me think of it.

Which brings me to the biggest point of the night: working a Gala is not like attending a Gala. It's like...work. In very tall shoes (five inches, in case you were curious. Five-excruiating-inches of pure torture. My pinky toes will never be the same.) We were on our feet for a solid four hours, hustling stuff here, there and everywhere. We weren't allowed to eat or drink (::sigh::) until our shift ended, and watching those catered appetizers drift by made a tiny tear come to my eye. I love nothing more in this world than catered appetizers...

Deana and I snagged a pretty cushy job, I will admit: we got to work the silent auction. While this did entail having to crawl on our hands and knees to get into the middle of the auction tables (not fun and incredibly humiliating), I had a birds-eye view as all of the guests arrived. Things got a little chaotic after the auction ended, and I learned yet another important life lesson: it's not really a Gala until someone yells at you.

And that's all I'm going to say about that.

The good news is that the event went off without a hitch (mostly) and it appeared that all of the guests ate and drank merrily. I was a wee-bit jealous as I watched a table clink their champagne glasses together as I hoofed it to the back of the room, yet again, carting around more stuff. And while working the Gala was akin to being flogged in heels, I think I might do it again next year...just with better shoes. Flats, perhaps?

I also learned that if you want to have a really fun night out, it's best not to do hours of charity work (while wearing medieval torture devices on your feet) because you are going to be really tired by the end of it. We were almost a full hour late to our dinner reservation by the time we changed clothes (and I put on my more-comfy four-inch wedges...I'm using the word "comfy" very loosely here), but it was literally heaven to finally be able to sit down.

We hit The Bank for a little dancing and then Caramel for an after-club drink. Considering the four of us are usually up by 6am everyday, asking us to stay up past midnight is almost as difficult as wearing five-inch heels. And on this particular day, Scotty had decided to wake at 5:20am. I managed to spill only two drinks (darn martini glasses are just so...upright) before calling it a night, and I think we were all ready to be done.

Town, consider yourself painted red.

Meanwhile, on the home front, Brian and Scotty had a lovely Saturday together. They did a little grocery shopping, folded the laundry, and Brian even treated Scotty to McDonald's for dinner. When I called and checked in on Sunday morning, Brian said he managed to shower after Scotty got up, since our friend Jay was in town and headed over.

"How did you do that?" I asked, wondering if he dragged the pack'n'play upstairs.

"Nah," he said. "I just took him in the shower with me."

WHAT!?

Yup, Scotty's first shower happened at the ripe old age of 19 months. Per Brian, the Bear loved it. Clad only in his diaper (since according to Brian, "he had already made the poo-poos"), Scotty just stood in the corner and tried to catch the water. Brian toweled him off, re-dressed him, and the two went on their merry way.

Okay, then.

Jay came over later in the day and Scotty showed him how to play the iPad. 

There was a little bear-panda wrestling.

And Jay taught Scotty how to bring him food.

Helpful, no?

I finally rolled home around one in the afternoon. Sandy and Court had to head home early due to family obligations, whereas Deana and I ended our decadent stay with an equally decadent idea: room service.

(we were also unable to walk due to the condition our feet were in, so room service was really our only option).

And just because I could, I ordered a side of Nutella to go on my pancakes. Num num!

Oh Bellagio, I *heart* you. Here's to next year!

And now I'm going to go soak my feet.

Again. 

'A' stands for...

APPLE!

Along with eating an apple like a big boy, Scotty also now says the word 'apple.' He adds six additional syllables (it sounds more like 'a-pah-pah-le-la'), but we're not splitting hairs here.

The best part about having an apple for a snack is that is takes him about 30 minutes to eat it. We call this the "slow burn." It's nice to find something to occupy him for a full 30 minutes.

A is also for...

Top-Chef ALL-STARS!

OMG, how good has this season been? I totally meant to blog about it, but then Brian and I fell behind, finally caught up, and now have just been speechless with the amazing display of culinary talent. I was going to rename the season, "Top-Chef: Dead Behind the Eyes" after the whole Jennifer R-flame out, but then Fabio brought it right back on course with his admission of his pet turtle (he calls her "Princess.") And the episode where Antonia and Mikey find out they are cousins? Reality TV gold. Love it.

I think we all know Richard wins (I hope, at least), but wow, what a run.

Scotty also recently developed a fascination of one of my cookbooks. I can't wait for the day he is able to don his own chef's apron and whip up something delicious for Momma.

A is for...

ALEXA!

That would be Jill and Chris' little Alexa, who currently resides in Denver, CO. Perhaps you remember Jill as a past guest blogger? Well, Alexa celebrated her one-year birthday this week, and was also kind enough to send Scotty his very own Duke t-shirt in anticipation of the sweet Sixteen. What a thoughtful little girl. Scotty was touched and so excited to wear his shirt, despite the miserable performance Duke put on that night.

Aside from both boasting incredibly kissable cheeks, we're hoping Alexa and Scotty have a future together. What, you may be asking,  happened to Vegas-girlfriend Samantha? Well, at a playdate a few weeks ago, Scotty squawked really loudly and made Sam cry. I'm pretty sure she broke up with him. (we're still working on his social skills.) After that, during a little Greco-toddler wrestling, Sam pinned Scotty multiple times and may have wounded his little baby ego. So, they are kind of on the outs right now. Enter Alexa, the Duke shirt, and a potential for a long distance relationship. I'm not sure what's going to happen, but I'll keep you updated.

Who knows...this might be the first ever toddler love-triangle. Move over, Brangenlina. Welcome to...Scam. Or Scalexa. Or something like that. 

And finally...

A is for...

ANTICIPATION!!

Because I leave for my little Moms-staycation in approximately 3.5 hours. And not a moment too soon!

The Spanx are packed,
I'm ready to go...
See you at
The Bell-a-gioooooo!

Quite possibly two of the greatest words in the English language:

Competent childcare.

Mmmm.

And that comes in the form of...Da-da!

On Saturday, the girls and I are headed out for a mini-stay-vacation, Vegas-style. We were able to snag a room at the Bellagio for $70 per person, so we will be taking the mom hats off for the night, and putting on hats that say, "I'm trying really hard to not look like a mom right now." Hopefully, we'll pull it off.

This all started as a result of the Junior League Gala, Paint the Town Red. Four of us volunteered to work the Gala, and a night was slowly built out of it. We're starting at 2pm with hair and make-up, checking-in  and dressing at the hotel, then the Gala. We should finish up around 8 or 9, grab a quick bite, and then it's off to explore Vegas in very tall, uncomfortable shoes. The only thing on the docket for Sunday is brunch, preferably outside, next to a fountain. In the sunshine.

Hopefully, there will not be any tigers, visits from Mike Tyson (who I met once...random story), or lost babies in our suite. We are moms, after all. I guessing the highlights are going to be sleeping in, eating a meal without feeding the person next to you, and enjoying a much-needed glass (or two...or twelve) of champagne.

Big (early) thanks to all of the dads who are putting on their parenting hats for the weekend, thus allowing the ladies to be real people again.

And if anyone finds a naked, Asian gangster in the trunk of Brian's car, well, it's not my fault.

Cheers!

Scotty and I have had a pretty chill week so far. We're staying close to home, putting puzzles together, building villages out of blocks (well, I am. Scotty likes to knock my buildings over with unbridled glee), and watching his new favorite friend, "Ne-Moo" (Elmo) on "Sesame Street." It's been very enjoyable to stay close to home, especially since the last few weeks have been a whirlwind of play dates, park visits, and activities.

Scotty is getting especially good with the iPad. He knows how to turn it on and off, select the program he wants, and even move the screen. There are some great kid apps out there like "Smart Baby First Words" and animal sounds. It's gotten to the point where I can hand Scotty the iPad and he'll be fairly content while I wash dishes, pick up the house, etc. This means he's not biting my legs, slapping me, or pinching me to get my attention. Thank you, Steve Jobs.

Today he was clicking around on the programs, and I noticed he was really interested in Roby the Robot. It's the kind of app similar to Talking Tom (the Cat) and Talking John (the bacteria -- ?) - the little creature repeats back whatever you say, and you can click on different buttons to make the critter do different things. I had just installed the latest Roby activities, and Scotty seemed to really dig it when the robot danced for him. He had three different dance buttons, and then a small button with a piano on it. Great, I thought, Roby plays the piano. A little Tiger Mom of me, I admit, but Scotty's definitely not too young to be interested in music and musical instruments.

Except Roby didn't play the piano. When Scotty hit the button, a piano fell out of the sky and crushed Roby. Only his little shoes remained, like the Wicked Witch.

The first time it happened, Scotty looked at me with his surprised face. Then he hit the button again. He started to cry. By the time the kid hit the button for the third time (inexplicably, I might add -- did he think Roby was going to survive this one?), the crying had turned into full-blown hysterical wails. I'm talking red face, big tears, thunderous cries, the works. Okay, Emo-baby, stop making yourelf upset. No more iPad.

And when I took the object away, he really let it all out.

Good heavens.

It took me literally 35 minutes to calm my child. We ended up in his nursery, rocking gently, hugging his giant stuffed dog, reading some books (that ended more happily than Roby's ultimate fate.) I was finally able to coax Scotty back downstairs, but only with the promise of more Ne-Moo and some juice and muffins. The whole time I kept thinking, "Did I just traumatize my kid with an app? Seriously?"

And so while Scotty was happily placated, I set about trying to delete the stupid app (knowing full well if I didn't, Emo-baby would go right for Roby again and we'd have another 35 minute meltdown on our hands.) The only problem? I don't know how to delete apps. I'm about as computer illiterate as they come. (this blog is a work of pure luck and chance, really).

I ended up calling Brian's office - not to talk with Brian, since I knew he was in court, but to conference in one of his associates who I know is really good with Apple stuff. Uncle Jim, however, was on vacation. I think the receptionist was really curious about what was going on (and I was feeling stupider and more desperate with every minute that ticked by), so when she suggested she connect me with Brian's secretary, I readily agreed. And Carmen, bless her sweet heart, didn't know how to delete apps but offered this nugget: "Why don't you Google it?"

Oooooh. Duh. Thanks, Carmen. When my mom-brain is working overtime (i.e. consoling, calming, and placating the child), the rational brain appears to click off. Carmen even sent me a link with very complete directions, so now I'm armed and ready to destroy anymore potentially emotionally-upsetting apps in the future.

Needless to say, Roby the Robot no longer exists on our iPad.

Good riddance, dumb robot. Don't scare my child anymore. 

Damn you, American Association of Pediatrics.

Just when we thought it was safe to take the toddler out for a drive, you issue new safety recommendations for car seats.

It seems like this new info has set parents all up in a tizzy and unsure how to proceed. Before you trek out to the garage to wrestle with the seat, let's look at the facts.

Per the official press release from AAP, parents are encouraged to keep their toddler rear-facing until the age of two, or until the child reaches the weight or height max for their particular car seat. There were also some guidelines for older kids, such as staying in a booster seat until they are four feet, nine inches tall, and are between the ages of eight and twelve. Kids are to remain in the back seat until the age of 13.

Which is good, because in just three years, those same kids are going to be driving the vehicle independently.

Ack. Let's not think about that.

A 2007 study in Injury Prevention found children are essentially safer when they are rear-facing. Children under the age of two are 75% less likely to die or sustain serious injury in the event of a crash when rear-facing. The reason is because the head, neck, and spine are better supported in the rear-facing position. Although the child's legs may be squished (a professional term, no doubt), leg injuries are preferable to spinal injuries.

Based on everything I've read, this recommendation appears to be built around the size of each individual child and the particular car seat model being used.  While smaller children will benefit from remaining rear-facing longer, other children will reach the weight/height max of their seat before the age of two.  Therefore, if the child exceeds the max of the rear-facing weight requirement, the parent has two options: purchase a new car seat with a greater rear-facing weight max, or turn the child forward-facing.

Scotty is right in the wheel house of this group. He's a big boy.

Oof, my aching back.

We have the Britax Marathon, which has a rear-facing weight max of 35 pounds. The Bear, per the scale this morning (which he stood on so nicely! What a good boy), weighed him in at a whooping 32 lbs, 6 oz. We are exactly two and a half pounds away from the weight max.

If I had a child that was significantly below the weight max for the car seat (say, 21 lbs on a 35 lb seat max), I would definitely turn the seat around. I'd give the child a good 5 days to acclimate to the new position, and try to keep car trips in the early days as short and quick as possible. But - if they were a little bigger, a little older, and more savvy (read: opinionated), AND they screamed bloody murder for those five days, I would probably consider turning it back around to forward-facing. Because at this point, what's worse: a child in a forward-facing car seat or a distracted, flustered driver who cannot concentrate because of the ruckus in the back seat?

I hate these kinds of questions. This is what makes Parenthood so tough. There are no clear answers.

I think it's about common sense here. I say this after I received a phone call from a good friend last night at 9pm. (Sorry friend...I'm outing you.) She was pretty upset about the new recommendations (which, FYI, are just that: recommendations. It is not law. And AAP are the same group who recommended women breastfeed for one year. A lot of women didn't follow that rec, and everything turned out just fine. None of our toddlers are serial killers.) My friend said she had just sent her husband out to the driveway to switch the seats around and per my dear friend, this news was so upsetting she was (jokingly, I think) considering going on Xanax.

Okay, this is where I draw the line.

Because driving while on a controlled substance, whether obtained through prescription or not, is FAR more dangerous than having your children rear v. forward facing. And so it texting while driving. Hell, so is talking on your cell phone (something I am very, very guilty of).

So let's take these new recommendations with a healthy dose of common sense and 1.) BREATHE and 2.) look at everything that is contributing to the chance of being in a crash. Don't drive under the influence. Don't text while driving. Don't talk on your cell phone. Don't pass your child graham crackers and bop-bops in an effort to keep him busy. (whoops...) Let's turn driving back into just that: driving, and not some multi-tasking expedition that also happens to involve getting from one place to another.

Also...I can't help but mention this...if you do turn the seat around, make sure it's installed correctly. I don't remember the official stats off the top of my head, but the majority of injuries to children in car seats were a result of improperly installed car seats. And now, thanks to the AAP, last night millions of dads were just cajoled into turning the seat around at 8pm at night by a near-hysterical mom, in the dark, after a long day at the office, and lord knows there are lots of buckles and straps and clicks to hook on properly.

::whew::

Whatever you choose, just make it right for your family.

Thoughts? Comments? Feedback? I'd love to hear your opinion.

I try not to talk about the inner-workings of a blog on here, mainly because it's really boring and most of you have blogs of your own. Knowing the stats about mine aren't necessary. But Weebly offers several functions that I really like to look at on a daily basis, including blog hits, unique visitors, and search terms.

My favorite is search terms. If you Google the term "bed rest," my blog should pop up. And I get to view all of the search terms that lead people to this site. It's usually pretty mundane -- and mostly about books or book reviews, not really about bed rest or pregnancy. Searches about kernicterus and jaundice have popped up from time to time, but the reviews about Tana French and Jodi Picolt are the most frequently searched for and viewed blog entries.  I'd imagine there are quite a few high school students out there plaguarizing my reviews. It's okay -- it's C+ work, at best. Sorry, kids. That'll teach you to be honest.

But today, I happened to check my stats and burst out laughing when I saw one poor, poor woman's recent search. I don't know what's going on in this person's life right now, but I wish them all the best.

"Does bed rest cause husband to go to strip club?"

Sweetie, if you are on bed rest and worried your husband might be headed to the club, you have a lot bigger problems headed your way. Best wishes for a safe pregnancy.

Introducing the newest fan of the Runnin' Rebels...

(We don't have a Duke shirt, I went to a Division III school, and Scotty looks better in red. Go Rebels!)

It's that time of year again when men are mysteriously able to leave work at noon to watch hours and hours of basketball without consequence. That time of year when people create brackets that honor their dead pets (ahem...that would be us) and everyone loves an upset.

Folks, March Madness is upon us.

And when you are married to a sports nut, it's impossible to escape it.

As a non-sports fan, I will say that this is not my favorite time of year. In years past, I enjoyed it because friends would come to visit (since there is really nothing quite like being in Vegas during March Madness.) But since most of our friends now have kids, the revolving door of visitors has slowed considerably.

I'm trying to get into it - really. Brian and I watched 'Running with the UNLV Rebels' on HBO a few nights ago, and I'll admit, I really enjoyed it. It was fascinating to watch 'Tark the Shark's rise to power. And he looked so cute chewing on his towel. It was nice to hear the backstory of a lot of players Brian still jokes about with his friends ("...ohhh! So that's the Lloyd Daniels story...") and understand why most of Las Vegas still has this unrelenting hatred of Duke. And the shots of Vegas during the '80s really highlight just how far (and big) this town has come.

As a family, we filled out three brackets this year: one for Brian, one for Scotty, and the Emma-Cat Memorial Bracket. Brian likes to have a system when doing things, so Scotty picked all the teams that have bears or woodland creatures for mascots, and Emma picked teams that are pro cats, birds, and anti-dogs. I wonder how well she'll do; in the past few years, Brian has lost to the cat fairly often.

So enjoy your weekend and all of the games! GO DUKE! (and UNLV, too!)

The Bear and I have this fun book that goes through a variety of emotions with babies making the correct faces. Since Scotty has been obsessed with looking at other babies lately (he being his favorite subject - this is my child, after Surpall), he LOVES this book. It's hilarious to watch him thumb through the pictures and look at each baby. He's taken it to the next level and today I found him going through the DVD collection in our family room, jabbing his finger at a picture of Liz Lemon from '30 Rock' saying, "Bay-BEE!"

We've also been practicing our own facial expressions in the mirror (this is what you do when you stay at home, I guess) and my favorite, hands down, is 'Surprise face!' I've somehow conditioned him to make this face when the phone rings.

Which is why I answer the phone laughing these days.