This weekend was Stephen’s dad’s cousins’ reunion. I know it’s complex but that’s not really the point of this story. We had a great time visiting with everyone and Stephen’s grandmother even made the trip from Montgomery for the weekend. That too wasn’t the point of this post but I had to say it anyway.

The point is that many people asked us for our phone number and our website info. So instead of writing this down on scraps of paper I had a brainstorm. The Granade family business card. I had done this for once upon a time for Amy so thought it would work well for us. So the next time you ask for our web address you are likely to get handed one of these.

This morning on the way to the grocery store Eli said to me:
“P and a O and a T and a S!!”

In my head I’m thinking, “What the heck did he see that had pots on it?”

At the same moment this thought is finishing running in my head, Eli says, ever so proudly, “Stop Sign, Mamma, Stop Sign!”

Yeah, that’s my kid reading signs there.

That Intelligent Design science fair article of mine has brought an influx of new visitors. Welcome! As the conversation went with Misty last night:

ME: Hey, look at that, another new set of visitors reading “Science Unfair.” That story’s got legs! It’s got legs, I tell you.

MISTY: Yeah, legs it evolved.

Feel free to stick around, though I warn you that most of our blog’s content is us going on about our kid and how cute he is except when he’s being annoying. There’s not much other science content here. Although I am a Ph.D. physicist, so there’s no telling when I’ll bust out with a comment about an explanation of counterfactual quantum computation that uses puppies to make its point.

Radio station KELI — all talk, all the time — began its morning broadcast at 6:03 A.M.

I got home today to find that Misty had installed a toddler-proof door handle cover on the laundry room.

For a while I couldn’t open the door.

Rachel and I just finished watching Pride and Prejudice and I am happy to report to all that she is now just as in love with Colin Firth as the rest of us ladies.

She left here curtsying and declaring that she had a simply delightful time in our esteemed company.

Next up: Bridget Jones’s Diary. I may well never get her off my couch after that one!

This morning while I was showering, Eli wandered into the bathroom. “Hi, daddy!” he said, before closing the bathroom door behind him. Uh-oh, I thought, and waited for Eli to start howling because he was trapped in the bathroom. Instead I heard him rattling the doorknob. The door swung open and he went back out.

“He can open doors!” I told Misty.

“Well, yes, he’s been doing that for a few days.”

A few days? Good grief, does she not realize that a toddler being able to open doors is like handing North Korea a couple of bottles of Mad Dog 20/20, the keys to the car, and nuclear weapons, telling the nation, “Don’t go getting all tore up tonight, kid!” The last time I felt this unsettled was when Eli made the transition from immobile object to crawling fiend. I was used to putting him down, walking out of the room, and returning to find him in the same spot. All of a sudden he was like the box turtle I found when I was 12 and brought back to our yard so he could be my pet, only to find out an hour later he’d vanished. At this rate I might as well show him how to work the stick shift in my truck and let him drive himself to Kindermusik. He can use those wooden blocks like Short Round did in the Indiana Jones movie.

This morning on our bed:

Eli: (crawling around on top of the covers and Stephen) “zzzzzzzzzZZZZzzzzzzZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzZZZZZ!”

Me: “Are you dialed up to eleven this morning?”

Eli:”zzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzzz (pause) YES! zzzzZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzZZZZZ!

Someone send reinforcements about three o’clock please.

This morning Misty slept in, leaving me in charge of Eli. At some point we had been up long enough that even I realized it was time for Eli to change out of his dinosaur pyjamas and into something more suited for the daytime, like his dinosaur shirt. “Let’s go change!” I told him.

When I opened his closet, Eli said, “I wanna blue shirt.” I pulled out his blue WHOI shirt, a perennial favorite. “No, I wanna blue shirt.” I pulled out the next blue shirt. “No, daddy, I wanna blue shirt.” It was like playing a text adventure with bad disambiguation. “Which shirt do you want?” I asked Eli. “The blue shirt, the blue shirt, the blue shirt, or the blue shirt?” I finally found the exact blue shirt he wanted: the one with lizards and frogs on it. I added a dark brown pair of shorts and voilà! A perfect summer ensemble.

Eli went to play in the living room while I went in the kitchen to empty the dishwasher. A few minutes later I heard an anguished cry. “Daddy, my pants!” I ran back to the living room. His brown shorts were standing up on their own, completely toddler-free. My pantsless son sat behind them, staring, sad trembly lip in full force.

The good news is that, since we live in Alabama, it’s okay if he runs around in only a diaper.

In today’s Dear Abby column, a mom writes in asking Abby if she is giving her son the gay.

My husband, “Ron,” and I are at odds over parenting our 7-year-old son, “Brett.” My husband is very domestic. He cooks like a world-class chef and does more housework than any man I know of.

I have read Dr. James Dobson’s books on family. He clearly states that a father should be the manly role model for the son, to prevent the son from being homosexual. I’m concerned that Brett will learn feminine ways from my husband and turn out to be gay. How can I convince Ron that he needs to teach Brett the more manly things in life? — WORRIED MOM IN FLORIDA

Good lord, I’d never thought about this. Now fear grips my heart. I’m not sure what to do; the only thing I can think to do is turn to Abigail Van Buren, also known as Jeanne Phillips.

DEAR “ABBY,”

My son, “Eli,” likes to play tea party with our cups. He often tells my wife, “Misty,” that her jewelry looks “cuuuute.” He’s a fan of Burt’s Bees, and loves to try on shoes. In the mornings when we’re getting ready, he plays with Misty’s eyelash curler and powder brushes. Given all of this, what kind of dance class should I enroll him in? — FABULOUS FATHER IN ALABAMA

Here lately Eli has been very two. On occasion he acts as if he is two times four, which is not eight in the topsy-turvy world of toddler math, but whine. The answer to every question is “No!” For instance:

Me: Would you like some of this pizza?
Eli: No!
Me: It’s really good!
Eli: Noooooo!
Misty: Look, we can eat some of it together. Yum.
Eli: No, mama, no!
(I take away the pizza)
Eli: My pizza! MY PIZZAAAAH! MY PIZZAH AH AH AH *choked sob* WHERE MY PIZZA?

Wherever I’ve lived, locals have told me, “Don’t like the weather? Wait five minutes and it’ll change!” So it is with the many moods of Eli. He can become distraught for reasons that only toddler logic can explain.

I was in Orlando for the first part of this week on business. Wednesday I was waiting for my plane from Orlando to Huntsville. Across from me was a family, including a boy who was about six and a girl who was about two. The girl had a pacifier in her mouth and was running around shrieking loudly. “Come here,” her mom said. “Do you want a hug?”

“SHRIEK!” said the girl.

“You’ll go into time out. Do you want to go into time out?”

“SHRIEK!”

“You need to calm down.”

“SHRIEK!”

“These people are going to be glad when we board the plane,” mom said to dad. They all laughed. We laughed, too, through gritted teeth. The girl continued to run around and shriek until it was time for them to go.

So, Eli: I’m sorry. Feel free to refuse things and then cry about them going away. I had no idea how mild you were really being.