Various variousness. And anyway. It's a moo point.

In case you were wondering: 

1. I haven't said anything to the guy. Nick thinks I should just stay out of it. And I've only seen him in passing. And it's my understanding that they have moved, so will be changing day cares once they find one.

So, I'm leaving it. Unless I see bad behavior. And then, then I will say something. I don't know what.

2. Also, I didn't buy the platform sneaks.

At the end of the day, I decided that I really don't understand them, and I can't wear things I don't understand. Where would I wear them?

If I'm running around with my kids, I'm not wearing platforms. If I'm trying to look cute, I'm not wearing sneakers. If I'm dressing up, I'm wearing hottie platform sandals or boots, depending on the coldness of the weather.

Which reminds me: 3. holy cow, is it spectacular out! Oh, delightful! Delovely! Sunny and happy and amaaaazing!

Which, with the holy cow, reminds me further: 4. Moo! Sort of.

So yesterday, my dear friend Jessica mentioned a peeve -- a pet peeve, if you will (heh heh) -- on Facebook: "It's LO and behold, people. LO. Not "low". /head asplode."

She got some delightful responses playing with the English language. I don't feel right copying the words of people I don't know, so I will just tell you that there were a number of creative misuses and misspellings.

Me, I got all fixated on low. Low? Low! Cows! Low! 

So I left a comment, "Unless you're talking to a cow. Low and behold! Or perhaps, low and be held?"

Then it occurred to me! I went back and commented again! "Low and be herd!"

You know how something will grab you and tickle you and you just can't let go of it? That's how this was with me.

I could. Not. Stop.

Swing low (and behold), sweet chariot?

Sweet'N Low ('N Behold)?

And then, then my lovely friend replied, "You know, I'd die of apoplexy, but my head asploded already, so it's a moo point."

Moo!  

Low and be Holstein!

Then I decided to quit while I was ahead, so as not to annoy her on Facebook.

I emailed her instead: (Low and be)hold me closer Tony Danza...

I'm not proud.

The more things change...

Some of you may remember the cold pants of yesteryear? Or anyway, last year? (Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?)

Back then, in our onlycoldpants crisis, a number of you were very helpful in locating replacements on the internet. We bought some on eBay. We went to Kohls. We bought a number of pairs of pants, none of which fit the bill. All summarily rejected. NOT cold pants.

Even though they were just like cold pants.

But in the end, after too many sweltering summer days where Jordan was basically a walking sauna (pronounced SOW-na) in his dreadfully hot double-layer polyester cold pants, which by that point had multiple holes and fit him like leggings, we took matters into our own hands. We did the only thing we could do.

We lied.

We hid them, and then told him they were dirty every day. Day after day. After a while, they faded from memory. He even began to wear shorts. He no longer called them broken pants. They were just, you know, shorts.

The new just-like-cold-pants-but-somehow-not got pushed to the back of the drawer. And then, when school started, Jordan had to wear a uniform, or anyway, uniform colors, every day. There was no fighting about pants.

But it turns out that the littlest kids don't really have to adhere to the uniform. Which makes my son happy.

He hates wearing a plain old white shirt. His entire little school life brightened recently when we learned that he could wear any shirt he wanted to school. The backhoes! The bulldozers! Oh, the tractors!

So yesterday, as he and Nick were rummaging through his drawers to get him dressed for school, he spotted a pair of pants tucked way back in the corner.

"Daddy! COLD PANTS!"

He said it almost reverentially. (Cold pants! From Jesus!)

"It's going to be very hot today."

"COLD PANTS!"

"They're not cold. They're hot. You're going to be too hot."

"COLD PANTS!"

Right. Because reasoning with a three-year old? Cold pants.

And India, for her part, has discovered Mahavira.

More broccoli? Buh bye.

I don't have much of anything to say today, but would you like to see a wee video of my kid?

Wedge sneaks?

How do you feel about wedge sneakers?

Image: Zappos

I feel like I ought to think they are ridiculous and loathe them, but the truth is, I find them quite charming. Maybe this is because I'm short and I find wedge anything appealing? I don't know.

Image: Zappos

I went a-huntin' on the Internet, and came across two pairs that I particularly like, on Zappos, land of shoe magic. The first is by Marc Jacobs and too spendy, in my opinion. The second is by Puma, and I might like those even better, despite my penchant for orange and pink together.

Or are they just too silly? What do you think?

My mama told me when I was young we are all born superstars.

When I was a kid, my dad used to make me go talk to strangers.

I know - opposite of what everyone else was being told, right? I mean, he was there, and he wasn't all, "Hey, go see if some man in an unmarked van has candy!"

It was more like he'd send me over to the desk at a hotel to ask where the restaurant was. Or whatever. Just to try to make me more comfortable talking to strangers.

I hated it. My younger brother would always step in for me.

Now, although I don't go out of my way to do so, I'm fine talking to people I don't know. Like, I don't shy away from an information desk or asking strangers for directions or something.


But what having kids has made me realize is that people are pretty much born with their personalities.

Look at these little humans: India is always all, oh, hey there! Hi! And Jordan is perpetually so busy creating his own little world.

Jordan, he hangs back in a crowd of strangers, sits on the edge sucking his thumb, not jumping in until he's comfortable.

Sometimes he doesn't talk at all in a group of new kids. He finds some trucks or a book or something that interests him and sits there absorbed, like there aren't 15 children running in circles screeching and playing.

I have to resist the urge to push him into the fray, to say, "Go play!"

But I don't. It wouldn't work, and it's not who he is.

And he is so me in this way. The bulk of humanity is not of great interest to him, and a large crowd of strangers is overwhelming. He picks his people. His true people are few and far between, but you can see how intensely they spark each other when they're together.

India, on the other hand, arrives and she's all, "Hey! I'm here! So great to see you, whoever you are! Yippee!"

This is Nick. Whenever we are in a social situation where we know almost nobody, I hold on to his arm, stand slightly behind him. Which, practically speaking, given our size difference, makes me invisible.

I'm all, "So many strangers! Yikes!"

Whereas he's just like, "New people to talk to! This is great!"

And then he'll just start talking to some random person about, I don't know, anything. There he is, striking up a conversation on the weather or dominoes or foreign policy or ball point pens.

Seriously. Whatever. He just starts talking.

Sometimes he talks too much, and I want to pinch him. Sometimes I do.

So here we all are, in a social sandbox. Some of us are mentally scooping wood chips with a backhoe, and some of us are poised to catch someone's eye all, "Hello the people!"