Young Love in Paris

Owen, our little internationalist, often brags about having been to four countries - the U.S., Canada, Belgium and Holland. He tends to gloss over the fact that his trip to Belgium and Holland was while he was inside Deanna as a 5-month-old fetus. While one might argue that his trip prior to birth thus did not technically count as him having been to Belgium and Holland, the more conservative among you might be inclined to argue that Owen's life had begun at conception and that he came out of the birth canal already qualified to be Vice President, at least from a foreign policy experience standpoint. He also, by the way, gets high marks in another important VP qualification category: the ability to give your offspring goofy names, assuming he someday makes good on his stated goal of a year or so ago of having twins named Coasterball and Googly-Goo. Political arguments aside, he was, as I recall, enthusiastic about the Belgium/Holland trip, even in his unborn state, doing excited backflips inside Deanna each time she ingested one of the chocolate eclairs that one stumbles into every six feet or so in Belgium (its a wonder those people aren't fatter!). But I digress.

While largely girl-averse these days, Owen recently came home from kindergarten raving about "Jane", who sits next to him in class, who had been to EVEN MORE COUNTRIES THAN HIM, had been BORN IN FRANCE, and had CLIMBED ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP OF THE EIFFEL TOWER. Quite a resume for a five year old. Owen's eyes were all starry as he talked and you could almost see his little heart thumping out of his chest like a cartoon character.

Last Thursday, we had the opportunity to meet Jane's parents at parent night at the grade school (which, much to our happiness, turned into parent night at the local martini bar afterwards!). Deanna had brushed up on her French a bit and I was ready to talk semi-knowledgeably about all manner of things French with my new future in-laws like, uh, Jerry Lewis movies (yuk!) and cheese. As it turns out, Jane was not born in France and has never left the country, although she has, apparently, gone up in the 1/3 size Eiffel Tower replica in Las Vegas. What she lacks in international travel experience however, she appears to make up for in imagination and an ability to weave a spell of love over the hearts of five-year old boys.

Meanwhile, in twin news, we made the boys go cold-turkey on the pacifiers, which they previously used mainly when sleeping. Hayden was much less of a pacifier addict than Cooper, so he does not seem to miss them much. He is, however, a natural agitator, so he makes a point of asking about pacifiers at every nap and bedtime in a loud voice with the apparent goal of making sure Cooper hears and starts to get worked up. Cooper used to sleep with as many pacifiers as he could get his grubby little hands on, often sleeping with one in his mouth and a spare in each hand. He has, predictably, taken the change hard, cuddling up each night with the empty box that the pacifiers used to be kept in. A sad little sight!

Big Z. and Little O.

When I was about eight, my dad and Uncle took me to my first Cubs game. After the game, they took me to a Wrigleyville bar for a bite to eat when in walked Mr. Cub himself, Ernie Banks. Ernie graciously stopped by each table, including ours, signing programs and chatting. While I recall that Ernie politely questioned why I was wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates cap (my choice at a vendor outside earlier), he could not have been nicer and I have been a devoted Cubs fan ever since.

Now that I have sons of my own, I am intent on passing along a love of the Cubs, especially during this possibly historic season, and an appreciation for baseball in general, with its endless intricacies, rich history, and a rhythm that seems to hark back to a simpler era.

That all being said, is there any prouder moment as a Cubs fan/father than showing a picture of Cub's ace Carlos Zambrano in the newspaper to your five-year old son, asking him who it is, and having him correctly reply: "That's Big Z!". The answer, by the way, is no. I will, however, acknowledge that my moment of pride was slightly dampened when Deanna asked him how he knew which Cub that was and he answered "Because he's the fat guy." Oh well, its a start.

Belgium v. Italy in the Labor Day Poop Flag Throwdown

A perusal of posts over the course of my little blog's history will show that two of the most common themes have been poop and flags. At long last, these two CloudEight favorites came together delightfully this Labor Day weekend while we were at a restaurant at Navy Pier having a bit of touristy fun. I had just finished parading all three kids to the bathroom for a much-needed hand-scrubbing, and, in Owen's case, a pee-break, when Owen, upon returning to the table, declared that he now had to poop. Deanna, thankfully, took him this time as my patience was beginning to wear a bit. Upon finishing his business, he summoned Deanna into the stall and informed her that he was trying to determine whether the poop he had just made looked more like the flag of Italy or the flag of Belgium. While I wasn't there to observe, I can imagine that she, although seldom lacking for words, simply stared in disbelief. Undeterred, he continued his one man debate, ultimately concluding that because the poop had more of a squarish-quality to it, it looked more like the Belgian flag (which, for you non-flag-o-philes out there, is indeed shorter and thus more square in shape than your average flag, for reasons only the Belgians probably know). Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on whether you are reading this post shortly before having a meal), we weren't able to capture the subject poop-flag for posting here. It should be noted that the flag of Italy is vertical green, white and red stripes, while the Belgian flag is vertical black, yellow and red stripes. According to a post-incident interview I conducted with Owen, it was not the color of the poop that inspired his debate, but rather its "stripey" qualities. His ability to produce squarish poop beyond this one incident is undocumented, so no need to suggest medical intervention as of yet, although an ability to crank out "squarish, stripey" poop may serve him well should he decide to become a performance artist, especially if he starts working with food coloring.

In other news, rather than take the end of summer lying down, we spent this Labor Day Weekend sucking the marrow out of it, engaging in an orgy of activity designed to fatten us up on summer memories for the long, hard winter ahead. On successive days, we went to Navy Pier (for the afore-mentioned touristy and bathroom fun), Arlington Park Racetrack (never too young to get the kids hooked on playing the ponies - Owen picked several winners!), and to Cantigny Park for a Labor Day picnic (featured attraction here is gardens and climbing on the 10 or so army tanks they have on the grounds around the 1st Infantry Division museum).