BOO-rennan

It's that time of year again. The time of year when parents everywhere put their children in elaborate, puffy costumes, just so they can score some free mini Snickers for themselves. God bless America, I say. I love it.

I was lobbying for Brennan to wear a rhinoceros costume this year, but apparently this is one time where Crazy Aunt Debbie has no say in his sartorial selections. Oh, well. I have to admit he makes one heck of a handsome monkey.

Click here for more shots of Brennan monkeying around in his costume and other Halloween apparel.

Have a great Halloween!

Try Wal-Marts for the wired version

Chip spotted this sign yesterday, and was kind enough to double back to get the shot.

He works hard for the blog.

The inspector wears pajamas

The Jones family (all five of them -- the dogs are a package deal) spent last Friday night at our house as they made their way through Missouri and Illinois for the baby shower and wedding weekend extravaganza of '08.

There's nothing like having an 11-month-old in the house to let you know exactly what needs to be childproofed. Wine bottles stored in the cabinetry by the sink? Gone. Runner on the coffee table that has a wreath full o' candles resting on it? See ya. Sort-of clean kitchen floor? Spiff it up, already. And then there's the free-standing toilet tissue holder in the guest bathroom, as well as the basket full of toilet tissue, both of which are apparently too tempting for words.

The good news is that our baby crib is, in fact, safe. The night before the Jones family arrived, I rushed out to that blasted Babies 'R' Us store to buy a mattress and all the accouterments so Brennan could test the crib for us. Wait, wait. I mean rest in the crib. What? Do you think I'm the kind of person who would actually put my sweet nephew in harm's way if it meant I could guarantee that a crib is safe for my unborn child? Well, then, I'm sure you also think I'm the same kind of person who would attempt to jam her nephew's hands and feet through the rails to see if they could get stuck. (They don't, in case you were wondering.)

Now that I've safely ensured Brennan and the white menace will never grace our home again, might I invite you to click here for a few more shots of Inspector B at work?

Confident

Hanging our Mizzou flag was a labor of love.

This flag - once the piece de resistance in Chip's room at the Pike house - has languished in our basement for the past four years. Every fall we say, "You know we really should hang that flag." Doing so, however, would require ladders, power tools, drilling into brick and the like, so of course it never happened. Until this year. I don't know if it was the nesting or Mizzou's ranking that did it, but by golly, that flag was going up, even if it meant visiting every single hardware store in a 50-mile radius. Which I did. In case you're wondering, it is terribly hard to find a metal flag pole holder and respectable-looking flag pole in September. My thanks to Ace Hardware and the Bug Store for having what we needed so I could get on with my life. I'm not kidding. At one point I asked Chip to go steal his parents' flag pole because I couldn't bear to walk into another Wal-Marts.

But that's all behind us now. The flag is flapping in the breeze and Buddy (in his Mizzou collar, natch) is prepared to attack any Big 12 marauders with designs on our flag. After all we've gone through to put our Tiger pride on display, I just know Mizzou won't let us down this weekend.

Go Mizzou!

For my next trick, I shall eat this pumpkin

It's starting to get fun around here, people. My sweet little nephew has quickly gone from crawling to climbing. Last week Brennan clambered up into his rocking chair, stood in the seat and squawked at Sherri. As an encore to that performance, he dumped a full can of Pepsi on his head. Not one to rest on his laurels, last Sunday Brennan scaled the hearth, discovered the staircase and used his riding toy to climb up on the coffee table in, oh, about a 30-minute time span.

Like I said, it's going to get fun. Especially since Sherri's response to my question about setting up the child gate was, "Oh, we're just hoping he'll forget about the stairs."

For more pictures of the industrious lad in all his pumpkin patch glory, click here. You shall not be disappointed.

The pumpkin principle

If you see a pumpkin, take it down. And if the pumpkin doesn't submit to your will, squawk at it.

- Brennan Jones, 11 Months

Please don't make me dumpster dive

Dearest husband, why must you thwart my attempts to recycle? This morning I opened the kitchen garbage can and immediately spied two sad little #5 pudding cups resting on a bed of plastic. They pleaded with me to rinse and recycle them, so I complied with their simple request and placed them among their brethren in the blue recycling bin.

If this anti-recycling statement is a way to get back at me for not having any food in the house except pudding cups, point taken. But why take it out on Mother Earth? She's not the reason you had to eat pudding for dinner last night.

There was simply no missing the look of disappointment on your face when you realized I returned from dinner with my friends empty handed, with nary a box of leftovers to be found. "Who goes to the Cheesecake Factory for dinner and doesn't come home with leftovers?" you asked Buddy. "Pregnant people, I guess."

I explained that Sue, Cori and I split a salad and entree so we had room for a slice of cheesecake (okay, two slices of cheesecake), but I still felt bad for not bringing home dinner. The coup de grace was when you extracted another pudding cup from the refrigerator and told Buddy, "Time to finish dinner."

Well played, Chip. Well played.

But still, I have to ask, do you really have to take it out on the recyclable plastics (which are numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 7, in case you forgot)? I'm the one who failed you, not Bill Cosby's favorite snack. Instead of calling this morning with a gentle reminder, I elected instead to add pepper jack cheese and that ridiculous Oscar Mayer salami to the grocery list so you can enjoy your favorite sandwiches before classes next week. I will even buy white bread instead of wheat. That's how badly I want to make this up to you. Now, can we call a truce and return to the recycling?

Off to daycare we go

Brian was kind enough to share this picture with me. I knew it was intended for public review, as the subject line in his email said "for the blog." He is not above getting my nephew plastered if it means he gets one more Brian tag on the blog. He's shameless, that one.

Of course, posting this picture is all fine and dandy with me because it proves I am not the only person who is highly entertained by the sight of small, angelic children sucking away on cans of golden delicious. Well, let me rephrase that: I'm not the only person in my family who is entertained by the sight of a baby with a beer. Or, as my mom used to call it, night-night juice.

Brian totally does the same thing

Since we last heard from Brennan, he has acquired a number of new talents. He throws the ball back and forth with Brian, grinds his teeth, added "ba ba ba ba" to his repertoire of "ma ma ma ma" sounds, and can take his socks off with his teeth. Yes. That last one is my favorite as well. Brennan perfected this little trick while Sherri and Brian were in Las Vegas last weekend, much to Grandpa and Grandma Jones' delight. Pat and Steve report that Brennan would put his foot in his mouth, pull off his sock, let it hang there and then laugh like a madman. Sadly, this is not a feat he will perform on demand, so there's no video to share. Yet. Give the ham time, I say.

Sherri uploaded a bunch-o-pictures from the past 30 days, so click here to enjoy.

Big tease

It's been far too long since we've seen something from this guy. I have more, but you must wait. Patience, my friends, patience.

Look out, he's on a roll

I think I've mentioned before that Chip is a super peppy, super hilarious morning person. I, on the other hand, need a bit of quiet time before I'm ready to communicate with the outer world.

After making several attempts to wake me yesterday, I finally succumbed to Buddy's kisses and rolled out of bed. As we were making the bed, Chip said, "You know, I was thinking. Since it takes you so long to wake up, we might need to start a training regimen so you're ready to get up with the baby. How about this: every two hours during the night you get up, walk into the office, sit in the chair for 30 minutes, and then come back to bed. If we start now, night feedings will be a breeze by the time the baby arrives."

I still wasn't forming words at that point, so I just shot him a look and walked out of the room before he could hear me laughing. No sense in encouraging the boy.

My nesting knows no bounds

Even the front porch cannot escape my need to tweak. I have wreaths for both of the doors, but Chip is already overwhelmed by the amount of fall foliage he must circumvent each day, so those will have to wait until the mums die and the pumpkins rot. Or someone steals them. Whichever comes first.