This first time I wrote this post it was a bit of a rant, because yesterday was a HUMDINGER. Then I revised it, and the second post was much longer, much more introspective, much more thoughtful…but then I decided it was whiny, that people don’t come here for thoughtful, and I needed to get over myself already. Just for the record: I am over myself.

The bottom line of version 2.0 was this: I don’t write this blog for me. Ultimately, it’s for Alex, and not just because I hate a scrapbook and because the whole scrapbooking phenomenon makes me angry (sorry, EK)…all that cutting with special scissors and buying special papers and designing themes for displaying pictures from Billy’s 4th birthday – it is so not me on any level. Alex’s half-finished baby book is proof. But this blog is my digital scrapbook for Alex. He’ll be able to look at it one day and see what his parents are really like and that they actually have, you know, personalities. He’ll see comments from my childhood friends, high school friends, college friends, babymama friends – so he’ll know what y’all are like, too, and hopefully he’ll like you anyway. Oh, I’m kidding. You know I think you are, as Mama says, “the berries,” and while I don’t know what that means, exactly, I’m sure it’s positive.

He’ll see comments from his aunts and uncles and cousins…he’ll have a hunk of his family history right here in this little ole blog. He’ll have pictures, stories, details of our lives before and after his arrival, and all of that, to me, outweighs any short-term strains I’m feeling on my end. When he gets older, I can print each and every one of these entries, bind them together, and give him, essentially, a book of his life (not to be confused with The Book of Life, which is slightly better written and has far greater long-term benefits). I just think the whole concept is, in a word, cool. And even when I get a little tired or overwhelmed or bogged down, is the time this blog thing takes worth it? Yeah, it is. For lots of reasons.

So bear with me over the next few weeks. We have a whole lot going on in our neck of the woods. David is swamped with his work, and I’m swamped with my work, but at the same time we’re grateful to have work that we love. I’m cooking for some people who are performing at church next Thursday night, so there is much grocery shopping and prepping and chopping and baking to be done (THAT will be heaven on earth for me – pure therapy). Then there’s another meal to cook the next week (the one where they’re going to give us a baby). There’s also a little boy who’s turning three very soon, and I need to get on the ball with all the plans for that. In the midst of all the activity, blogging is going to have to take a backseat. I’ll still be around, of course, but probably just once a day. We’ll see how it goes.

Unfortunately, I am not in fact a robot, and I do require what the humans call “rest” and “sleep.” Go figure.

All right – so the whole Mike DuBose topic is a bust, as I realized when I saw Tracey’s comment asking who he is. Maybe I’m a little too immersed in football for my own good. So, moving on to Idol-y goodness. I’m way overdue on this topic, I admit.

The hardest thing for me at this stage in the Idol game is that I can’t remember many names, although I do have some definite favorites. I’ll get to those in a minute.

First of all, I really like American Idol once it gets down to the field of 24. I like parts of the audition process. But when I see contestants who have a sense of entitlement, who argue with the judges, who vow that they don’t NEED American Idol because they’re gonna “blow up” and go triple platinum and by the way, who the bleepity-bleep does bleeping Paula Abdul think she bleeping is, I have to fight REAL hard not to go out back, pick the thinnest, longest switch I can find, hunt down those ungrateful young’uns and TEAR THEM UP. Whatever happened to humility?

It’s that attitude of being owed something, that attitude of being better than everyone else that just drives me straight over the edge. I’m sure that Precious Baby’s mama told her how perfect she was from the time she was born, but just because your mama loves to hear you sing doesn’t mean that anyone else will. I mean, Mama and Daddy used to smile at me when I’d have to jump down an octave just to get through a chorus of “Oh How I Love Jesus,” but never for one second did they delude me with the notion that I had any sort of talent. Somebody needs to be honest with their young’uns and quite parading them down the pageanty path. Because I’ll guarantee you that somewhere in most of these bitter young girls’ pasts are several failed attempts at becoming Miss Cutie Patootie Petite Princess of Dixie. But that, as they say, is another soapbox for another day.

Second of all, I’m tired of people trying out for the show just to get a laugh. It’s not funny anymore. So stop it.

Third, the twins from Memphis? The ones who should have a comma and the words “Drama King” as a permanent suffix to their names? The ones who don’t seem to be able to get out of bed in the morinng without finding ways to draw attention to themselves? The ones who fancy themselves God’s gift to the music industry? The ones who seem to think they know all the ins and outs of getting a record deal (which, by the way, wouldn’t they, you know, HAVE a record deal if they knew so much)? Well, I don’t know if y’all have heard or not, but I think we’ll be spared from seeing them go much further in the competition, because apparently they have a few legal issues that require their immediate attention.

Okay – let’s turn that frown upside down and focus on the positive. And there are links below if you’re trying to get up-to-speed.

I adore Taylor Hicks, the guy who’s pushing 30, prematurely gray and actually from right here in Alabama. He has this surprisingly soulful voice, seems grounded, humble, and thankful for the opportunity. I don’t know if he’ll skew young enough to get any votes, but he’ll for sure get mine. He’s my favorite. If he doesn’t go far, then Sister, maybe you could make some calls to help a good Southern boy, and I’ll just leave it at that.

The cute girl named Paris Bennett? The tiny little thing who auditioned singing Billie Holiday? Love her.

And this guy? Will Makar? Adorable. Awesome voice. Headed for the top 5, if you ask me.

I’m curious to know what y’all think. Any favorites? Don’t care? Let me know.

Thursday update: here’s a link to all the contestants’ info.
Thanks, Daph!

I’m sure Mike DuBose will do a great job at Millsaps.

I’m always happy to see a person get a second chance.

But this job being “a landing place where he and [his] wife…can retire”?

I doubt it.

Call me cynical, but I think it’s a step up on a ladder that leads straight back to the promised land of Division I football.

And this time around? I bet you a dollar to a donut that his secretary is pushing 80, tough as nails, and will slap his face if he so much as cuts his eyes the wrong way.

Thoughts?

Now, I try to be careful about the cutesy Alex stories, for reasons I’ll explain below. But this one, well, it’s funny. At least to me. So I’ll share.

I believe it’s been well-established that Alex is a talker, a chatty fella, if you will. But he’s now taking the talking one step further and repeating every. single. thing. his daddy says or does. Fortunately, his daddy doesn’t really say or do anything inappropriate (unless he’s tackling a home improvement project). It’s just that his daddy is very funny, and Alex tries to imitate the funny, and much hilarity ensues.

So last night, when I let David know that supper was ready, he walked into the kitchen, looked at all the fixins, and immediately began to sing an impromptu homily: “Sweet Mary, Mother of God, we have some meaaaaat-baaaallls.” Alex, who was standing in a kitchen chair, watched every move his daddy made, and then, perfectly on pitch: “Sweet Mary, mother of God, we got some meaaaaat-baaaallls.”

I mean, that IS funny. Exact same inflections. Exact same expressions. Couldn’t have sung it any better if he were administering the sacraments on a Sunday morning.

Last week I actually posted another example of how A. imitates his daddy, but David thought it just reeked of “Oh look at my child – isn’t he just an angel, an angel straight from heaven,” so I deleted the post. Don’t get me wrong – I think it’s wonderful to adore your children, but I try not to venture overboard lest my friends and family be tempted to ram their vehicles into large concrete barriers after reading the blog. The last thing in the world I want to be is That Mama, the one who puts up the facade that everything in her family is just perfect and wonderful and she never gets tired of meaningful interaction with her children and really, even though she tries to be humble about it, she’s tempted to put a bumper sticker on the back of her Suburban that says World’s Greatest Mom because she IS, y’all. She IS.

A couple of months ago I had to take A. to the doctor on a Sunday, and there were two other families in the waiting room. One family was sitting quietly, but the other family? Well, let’s just say that the MOTH-er? Who was READ-ing? BOOKS? To her LIT-tle GIRL? In loud SING-SONG tones? And “OH, SWEET-heart, do you SEE the BIRD in that PIC-ture? THAT is so PRET-ty! Isn’t that PRET-ty? OH, YES, the bird IS blue! VERY GOOD!” She went on and on, with EVERY DETAIL more EXCITING than the LAST!

It probably goes without saying that I have a hard time relating to mothers who talk to their children like they’re being filmed for some Learning Channel special about how to interact with toddlers, like the mamas in Target who so patiently explain, “NO, Hannah Grace, we don’t eat COOK-ies before LUNCH-TIME, but you can have a ba-NAN-a if you’d like” because meanwhile, I’m over on the canned goods aisle gritting my teeth down to nubs, with my face one inch from Alex’s, hissing, “Sit down in the cart. Right now. If you don’t sit. down. right. now. I will WEAR. YOU. OUT. Because I have HAD IT.”

Anyway, after the woman who was reading books in the doctor’s office got called back to a room, the other mother, the quiet mother, looked at me, looked at her husband, looked to make sure the READ-ing mother wasn’t listening and said, “Mark my word. She keeps THAT up? Reading like that? Her little girl will jump off of a building by the time she’s five.”

Now THAT’s a mama I’d like to know better.

Okay – so it’s not really a big secret that I am not a huge romantic. I am probably the least romantic girl I know, in fact. I don’t care about sweeping romantic gestures – your flowers, your chocolates, your jewelry. I especially don’t care for jewelry – I would much rather David sock that money away so that we can go on a big trip for our tenth anniversary (side note: one time I mentioned this to Mama, who said, “You’d rather take a trip than have another diamond?” I said, “Oh, yeah – any day.” And she replied, “Well, you’re crazy.”)

My point is that I tend to let holidays like, say, Valentine’s come and go with only a card as a token of my love and affection. If I’m really going all out, I’ll get David a CD or something (another side note: my sister, on the other hand, never misses a single holiday…this morning we were greeted by a Large Box of Goodies filled with all manner of age-appropriate toys for Alex as well as candy and a book for his mama).

When I woke up today I did process the fact that it was Valentine’s Day, and while I considered picking up happies for my husband, I ultimately thought, “You know, I bet David will kind of appreciate it if I don’t cave in to the commercialism of this manufactured holiday – I am not going to buy anything.” To me, at least at 6:30 this morning, this was an excellent idea – one of my better ones, in fact. I mean, what husband wouldn’t want for his wife to abandon all romantic expectations? That’s a good thing, right?

I was surprised to find a sweet email from D. in my inbox about an hour later, and I honestly thought it was a great V-Day token in and of itself. I was actually impressed that he remembered the day at all, as he has been very vocal in the past about his dislike for what he calls “Valentinian paraphernalia.” I sent him a sweet email in return, and in my mind, we were all done with the Valentine’s festivities. We’d expressed some lovely sentiments, end of story.

Did I mention that I’m not at all romantic?

Imagine my surprise this afternoon when I found a gift WITH A CARD (that’s even a bigger deal when D. is doing the giving) on the dining room table. He had picked out a new cookbook (I can read a cookbook like a novel, no kidding) AND a copy of Paula Deen’s new magazine. Nothing extravagant, mind you – but really thoughtful gifts that will be used and enjoyed by me for many years to come.

And do you know what I had to give my husband?

That would be JACK. And SQUAT.

He wasn’t upset at all. He was a little surprised – but not upset. I mean, I do usually give AT LEAST a card, but this year I didn’t even have that unless you count the cards that Alex got yesterday at Mother’s Day Out, and somehow I’m thinking that small animated greetings from Matthew and Avery and Claire and Charlie probably won’t mean too much to David.

So I am about to rectify this situation. I’m gonna make a big ole country supper – meatballs and gravy, egg noodles, butterbeans, biscuits, brownies and ice cream. And Alex and I are about to create the card of all cards. It’s going to be big and it’s going to be colorful and it’s going to be romantic. But somehow when I think about romantic cards I picture people feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries while they hold hands in a field of dandelions as they sing love songs from the 70’s.

And that’s not really us.

So I think I’ll go for funny. Funny is most definitely us.

Off to redeem myself.

By the way, Happy Valentine’s Day, BooDaddy!

Even if I’m terrible at romantical gestures (and it’s very important to say “romantical,” as it isn’t really a word at all), I love you very much.

I mentioned last week that Dr. Cutie McDreamy had narrowed his bachelorette list down to three. A few comments after last night’s episode:

He and Sarah from Nashville seemed to have fun on their “exotic overnight date.” She would be the best catch, for sure – she’s cute as a button and grounded as can be and a kindergarten teacher to boot and basically a Bachelor anomaly in that she’s normal. But they still don’t have one bit of chemistry. They’re trying to have chemistry, and I think they want to have chemistry, but the chemistry, well, it does elude them.

Susan, the girl who says she is “falling in love” with Travis but oh, by the way, also wants to move to L.A. to pursue her acting career but never ever ever intended for The Bachelor to be a stepping stone (ahem), got the boot last night. And I say good riddance.

Moana continues her reign as the girl who has had a “certain effect” on Dr. McDreamy (my sister said it – I didn’t – but my sister is right). Oh, she is a troubled soul, and I’m afeared that while she is maintaining a facade of normalcy right now, one day in the near future Dr. McDreamy will catch her spying on him as he makes his rounds or find her rifling through his photo albums and performing odd sacrificial rituals with pictures of his old girlfriends. Sometimes short-term fun has long-term consequences. I’m just sayin’.

During the previews for next week’s episode, viewers were instructed to do the following: “Be sure to stay tuned next week and see which one of these two ladies might get to be a doctor’s wife!” [emphasis mine]

Because really, being a doctor’s wife is obviously the highest goal to which any self-respecting female could aspire.

Because really, being a doctor’s wife is obviously the pinnacle of all possible wifely experiences.

I mean, who cares cares if a man is “kind” or “respectful” or “funny” – if he’s a doctor, ladies, then your problems are solved!

Mercy, mercy me.