Pioneer Valley Days

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #39

Hey, look at me! Mommy and Daddy took me to Look Park todayblrbgh! We rented a picnic table and grilled some hot doghlblgrgh and toasted a few marshmallows, although I think I like them raw better. I’m hardcore like that. We also rode the train … twice! I took Mom both times while Dad waited at the statiogbhlgrghlgh and stewed and complained like a 3-year-old. Suck it up, Dad. Maybe I just like Mom betterghlblghrgh. Mom also pushed me on the swings, which was awesome. On the other hand, the humidity took all the speed out of the slides. No problem ... I just walked up themblgrblrgh! That probably tired me out, because I took a long nap outside on my air mattress after lunch. But this is probably the highlight of the entire day, running around here in the splash areaglbrglbrgh ... although it would be even more funghlblgrblgrgh if Dad would quit telling me to stop drinking the water. He's annoyingrblblgrglblrgh like that. No wonder Mom got two train rides.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #38

Aaaaarrrrr! I'm a pirate. I plunder toyboxes and leave devastation in me wake, Duplos and Mr. Potato Head pieces scattered across the living room like the corpses of unsuspecting sailors. Aaaaarrrrr! I brandish me fearsome hook at the neighbors and steal their candy, which Mom and Dad Pirate helpfully switch out for treasures that don't contain peanuts. Aaaaarrrrr! Because a pirate fears nothin' but peanuts, and don't ye forget it, or I'll run ye through with me Epi-pen, me hearties! Aaaaarrrrr! Sometimes I even pose for photos with other, less fearsome pirates -- faux buccaneers who think a fake mustache and beard make 'em more intimidatin'. But I know it's just magic maaaaarrrrrker, me hearty! The same kind I use for aaaaarrrrrts and crafts! Hardy har haaaaarrrrr! Anyway, maaaaarrrrrk my words, there be much plunderin' and pillagin' tonight, and I be warnin' the neighbors once again to beware the peanut products, aaaaarrrrr! I be preferin' Junior Mints, hear me now? Oh, and Smaaaaarrrrrties.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #37

One ... two ... threeeeee! Splash! Yay, I'm wet! Again again again again again! OK ... one ... two ... threeeeee! Splash! Again again again! And a little bit higher next time, shall we? OK. One ... two ... threeeeee! Splash! Um, I guess that'll do. But let's pick it up a little, shall we? What do you mean you're tired? Again again again again! One, two, three, OK? OK, then. One ... two ... threeeeee! Splash! That's more like it. But this time point me at the camera, OK? Mom's not standing up there for her health. And try to get me directly in front of you, 'cause no one wants to look at your lumpy, amorphous chest, Dad. No, seriously. Ready? One ... two ... threeeeee! Splash! Um, that was a definite regression. Again again again! Wait, you're tired again? You have got to be the wettest blanket ever to set foot in a pool. Again again again again! And make it a good one! One ... two ... threeeeee! Splash! Um, that wasn't even a lift. It was more of a push. Can Mom come in? Seriously, hand me to Mom, and you take the camera, because this isn't even fun. Oh, you want to try one more time? OK, but this had better be good. And really, Dad, cover yourself. You look like wet cookie dough with clumps of hair in it. All right, last chance. One ... two ...

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #36

Hi, Mavi! Why don't you come outside and run around the yard with me? Oh, you're hurt? What happened? Dad was throwing you the tennis ball in the road and you slid on the asphalt a few times and ripped all four of your pads open? And one is hanging by a tattered flap of flesh? Um, that's kind of disgusting. Well, it's not like anyone would have seen that coming, huh? What's that? Dad was worrying about the exact possibility moments before throwing the first ball, because it's happened before? And he threw it anyway? About 12 times in a row? Knowing that you wouldn't complain even if you were bleeding to death, because of the utter shock that Dad is actually taking time to play with you? Wow ... that's some pretty irresponsible parenting there. I'd hope Dad would notice if the soles of my feet suddenly fell off. Anyway, I hope you're OK to compete in your trial in two weeks. You are? Because the event actually begins tomorrow, and you're already healed? Because Dad waited almost two weeks to blog this adorable picture? Then when, exactly, are these deep thoughts occurring? Hey, this is just like one of those episodes of Star Trek that screw with the space-time continuum. Now I've got a headache. I need to lie down on the couch and watch Tasha. No, not that Tasha. The hippo, not the one who was killed by the tar pit. What's that, Mavi? Yeah, I know. Pablo would have had some serious anxiety about that, huh? Anyway, have fun at your trial. Get a Q. No, not the one who annoys Picard. Stay with me here, pawboy.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #35 (with Apologies to Dar)

So I'm sliding, ’cause they say my motor skills are off the chart.
And if it helps, I'd tell you playground outings lift my little heart.
And when you find another park, we can try again -- after work next time.

So I call down to my parents as I crouch my diapered tail low:
“If I could believe that stuff, I'd say your dudeface has a halo.”
And they look back and say, “Yeah, you're really blond.”
And then I go down the slide to join the toddlers -- I am a toddler.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, and that's not easy.
Why do we have to drive? A backyard swingset would please me.
I will not be afraid of childhood.
I will not be afraid of childhood.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #34

Day 12. After this many days wandering in the wild outlands of Massachusetts, the cold gets trapped inside you, like pee inside Pampers -- you know, like a long night in the crib after drinking too much juice before bedtime, but not long enough before bedtime to get rid of some of it before getting that last diaper change for the next 12 hours, so that by morning the diaper has become freakishly bloated, but somehow, thanks to ever-improving Pampers technology, retains most of the moisture, which is great from a comfort perspective but at the same time makes it difficult to potty train, because there's never a moment of such extreme wetness and discomfort that you'd feel motivated to sit down on the potty, which is why the diaper companies created the wetness-layer technology of their trainer diapers, a box of which Dad purchased some time ago but keeps forgetting to use. That's how the cold gets trapped inside you.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #33

Giacomo! What the bleep is thiiiiiis? You're cooking in a plastic kitchen? A tiny plastic kitchen? Don't walk away from me! How do you expect to cook in thiiiiiis? How hot do those burners get? Ten bleeping degrees? How do you expect to cook the beef or the salmon with thaaaaaat? As well as you cooked that miserable bleeping risotto you tried to pass off as bleeping human-grade food? Look at me, Giacomo! And is that a sippy cup of milk above the stove? A sippy cup of old bleeping milk? That's bleeping unsanitary, you cow! That's like sweating in the bleeping food! And who put the pot of corn in the cabinet? Noooooo! People are waiting for their bleeping corn, you bleeping imbecile! Bleep! This is bleeping hopeleeeeeess! That's it, I give up ... SHUT IT DOWN!

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #32

Man, you should have heard them. I was just a little dude, swimming gracefully through channels of amniotic fluid, minding my own business, and Mom and Dad kept interrupting my watery reverie with their hoots and hollers. First championship since 1918, they kept saying, four months into my swim. My ears were just forming, but I heard loud and clear. Then, just three months later, more shouting and jumping around (well, not by Mom, but I definitely felt Dad jumping), and they were yelling again. Three titles in four years! they were saying. All I know is, it totally woke me up, and I couldn't sleep for days. When I finally had to get out of the pool, so to speak, a couple months later, people were dressing me in these weird clothes -- bright red shirts with white balls sewn on, and blue jerseys with big numbers and some creature with a triangular head. It was all very strange, but I've since learned a lot about what those colors and symbols all mean. I totally get into sports, so much that I start yelling, "Football! Football!" whenever I see a ball, or a playing field, or the triangular-headed thing. I even went to Build-a-Bear and gave birth to a kitty who likes the Patriots as much as I do. But here's the thing ... ever since I left Amnioland, there hasn't been anymore yelling about championships. Red Sox? None. Patriots? None. Even the Lady Huskies haven't quite been themselves lately. Is it me? I don't think so. And today, we're going to find out a lot. So when's the game on? The cat and I want to know. Oh, and Mr. Manning? They're not going to be saying "mooo-vers." They're going to be saying "booooo." Just thought you'd like to know.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #31

So ... there's this girl, see, and she comes to McDonald's whenever I do. Our local Mickey D's has a cool playscape with a slippery slide for wee folks like me, and I always seem to share it with this other girl. Her dad told my dad that they live right around the corner, so they come over a lot, but I'm not totally buying that. See, I think she kinda digs me, and somehow she knows when I'll be dining at Chateau du Ronald, and she gets her dad to take her. I wonder if she orders Chicken McNuggets, like I do. I keep forgetting to ask. I wonder if she dips them in ketchup, then sucks off the ketchup, then dips again, then sucks again, and so on. That's how I eat 'em, anyway, a culinary sensation that Dad compared to something called "Lick M Aid," which apparently was something he snacked on during the colonial days of our great nation. Um, it's 2006, Dad. Please update your references. Anyway, I want to chat up my new toddler pal, but all I can manage is occasional awkward pats on her head. And it's not easy to be suave when your Dad is standing right there, stridently complaining to your Mom about how miserable the counter service continues to be at this place. Sure, he had to go back four times because of stuff they forgot to give us, but really, Dad, give it a rest. We all eventually ate, and besides, with all the real problems in the world -- the Iraq war, the Iranian threat, illegal immigration, still no college football playoff, the ever-expanding goatee you refuse to trim -- perhaps the wage slave behind the McDonald's counter isn't the most practical target for your rage. Now pipe down and let me impress this chick.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #30

Hi, everyone. Nate here. This is my Dad. He's happy in this picture because he's on vacation in Maine, and he doesn't have to write any stories for a whole weekend. Look at his cheesy expression. It tells me, I'm having a great time, and when we get home, I'm gonna upload some of the 100+ photos we took and blog, blog, blog like crazy about our trip. Guess what, everyone? Dad's a huge liar. Even now, he's writing boring stories about area hospital finances, instead of telling you how I dug holes in the sand, took a hayride, watched my parents scarf down shellfish, and slept like a little angel every night. But I'm giving him one last chance. If I don't see some detailed accounts of my Maine vacation on this page in the next few days, I'm going back to my bad nights. And you don't want that, Dad. Oh, and I want to see the vacation blog before I see the next entry on your stupid 100-albums list. Two things about that, Dad: A, I know the next entry is They Might Be Giants. And B, nobody cares.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #29

Aaah! What happened to my arm? I remember the nurse poking at it with a miniature prod. Then I was chilling out in some waiting room with Mom and Dad, climbing on chairs. Then the nurse was back, grabbing my arm and gazing at it from every angle like it was one of those pictures you can see only if you cross your eyes a certain way. Oh, wait ... it's coming back now. She dotted me with a brown marker where little scratchy pink lumps were coming up. That lump is peanuts, and that one's soy, she said. And that's for milk, and that's eggs, and that one's for dust mites, and that massive, throbbing monstrosity over there is cats. Ah, yes. These are the things I'm allergic to, apparently. Good thing we sent our kitties away last year, huh? And that bump right there, the nice nurse said next, is for dogs. I almost fell out of the chair I was trying to stand on. Um ... I'm allergic to dogs? Seriously? Someone is going to have to break the news to Maverick, because there's no way Mom's getting rid of Ripley. Poor goofy golden. I'm gonna miss his sweet face ... his drool ... his bacteria-encrusted ears ... his ... his ... what's that, Mom? We're not ditching Mav? Sweet. We're just going to keep the dogs out of my room, and Mom's going to buy some kind of vacuum cleaner with a hepatitis filter. At least that's what I think she said. I didn't know allergists can screen for that! Unfortunately, today would be my last appointment with Dr. Jerkwad Frownyface, who -- according to Mom and Dad -- didn't seem to understand why we were there, hardly asked about the peanut incident, needed Mom to tell him which of my arm bumps were which, clearly couldn't wait to leave work and go golfing, and said in closing, with exquisite aloofness, that he'd see us in a year. Yeah, fat chance of that, Doc. But your nurse was very nice. Um, can I scratch my arm now?

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #28

I love birds. Most of the time, anyway. On the other hand, today, as I was walking along a pretty stream, I came across a bird strutting around, making a lot of noise, and generally being a nuisance to the other animals in the park. Apparently, there was some mole or hedgehog or something with one foot caught in a hole in the ground. He had drawn quite a crowd of other animals, but this bird was just vrooming back and forth around his head like a total maniac. It seemed to me like she thought she was helping, but I think she was just annoying the other animals -- especially the one who was trapped. Anyway, that didn't last too long, because a hungry fox came along and snapped up the little bird in its teeth. As the feathers wafted down (see, I caught one!) the other animals made noises that sounded distinctly like applause -- except for a guinea pig and a turtle. You've never seen two animals run faster.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #27

Not to go all Gordon Ramsay on you, Dad, but what is this lunch? First I ate all my green beans -- passable, if not quite tempting -- but then you follow it up with deli turkey breast and some rotini pasta from last night's macaroni-and-meatballs disaster? Um, I'm pretty sure none of us really want to remember last night. Thanks to your -- let's find a polite word here -- horrifically generous use of bread crumbs in the mix, they came out, um, well, like meat-flavored boulders. I heard you made 15 of them. Great! Now all we need is a pool table and some sticks and chalk! I mean, if the Israelis loaded those things into launchers, we're talking hundreds of dead Hezbollah and two hastily returned soldiers carrying Lebanese apology notes and maybe some sheet cakes frosted with "We Luv the Jews." But, hey, let's not quibble too much -- I've been loving the watermelon you cut up this week, although I've been told I can't live on that. Darn. I guess I can take solace in the fact that I'm coming ever-closer to landing food in my mouth with this spoon (Mom taught me), and that dinner will certainly be an improvement over this lunch. What's that, Dad? You saved me a meatball for tonight? What's the matter with you? That's it. I'm done. Yo, Ripley! Come and get some "accidentally" dropped pasta and turkey! I am totally going on a hunger strike. At least until the watermelon -- and some semblance of gastronomical sanity -- return.

Editor's note: He actually ate all his meatball last night, and then happily ate another one tonight -- to the near-total neglect of his baby peas. Little liar.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #26

No, Ming-Ming! I don't want to be rescued! I'm not in any trouble, really! I was just wandering through this little playground, looking for steps and curbs to climb up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down. I was doing just fine without you coming along with your lame "cravin' for some savin'" schtick. So please get out from under me so I can go back to enjoying my outdoor time. Man, you're worse than Dad. I mean, I can't stand precariously over a six-inch drop onto a concrete sidewalk without Dad hovering over me with 9-1 already dialed on his cell phone. I wish he was more like Mom, who is far more easygoing with my occasional bumps and bruises. She knows they'll only make me tougher and smarter as I grow up. So, reawy, Ming-Ming, I don't need wescuing wight now. If I do, I'm sure the tin can will ring and tell you all about it, OK? I'm starting to agree with Mom, who has been positively clamoring to see you leave Nick Jr. for the Food Network, if you know what I mean.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #25

Uh-oh. Here comes Mina again. She totally stole my ball a few minutes ago, the crazy ho. And she's quick, too. Every time I reached for it, she turned away before I could grab it. Even worse, when her mom found a ball for me to play with, Mina stole that one, too! Unrepentant little Jezebel. She's cute, though. In fact, play group in general has been pretty neat. I keep trying to escape, of course, repeatedly ambling toward the grownup section of the library, but Dad keeps catching up and bringing me back to all the kids and mommies. (And one other daddy today! I almost fell over! I mean, aside from the times I actually did fall over!) All the kids seem to be happy to be doing something social after spending the last week and a half staring out their living-room windows at the pouring rain. And these kids do spend way too much time in their living rooms. I mean, all the parents talk about is when their kids are going to start taking only one long nap, and do it in the crib, and get more than eight hours of sleep a night. Hellooooo! I should give them all sleeping lessons, since I'm apparently the only one who knows how to do it. But instead of taking this opportunity to brag a little and revel in our nappy glory, Dad had to go and tell the other moms how he sliced his finger open on a pineapple can lid this weekend, distracting him and Mom long enough for me to grab a fork out of the dishwasher and brandish it at Ripley. Um, Dad, when we're clearly doing something right, why tell everyone about our bad parent-child moments? Do you even know how to impress people? How in the world did you get Mom to marry you, anyway? OK, where was I? Oh, yeah, keep the ball away from Mina. Brazen little strumpet.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #24

OK, where is my lunch? Dad put me in this chair nine seconds ago, and still no lunch! You could successfully ride a bull in less time than that! How long does it take to pour a bottle and grab some veggies and soy yogurt? Twenty seconds? Thirty? Does he really think I have that kind of time? And I was so good today! For my second haircut ever, Emilio used the electric buzzy thing, and I hardly minded at all! Sure, it got a little tickly a couple of times, but Dad said that was OK. He even told me to ask Nonno about all the times he brought Dad to the local barbershop when he was a kid, and how ticklish Dad got with the buzzy thing and the hair-sucking vacuum tube (which Emilio doesn't use -- and too bad; it sounds like fun). So, anyway, I really like the buzzy thing, because it left me with a sleek, salon-quality look that's gonna leave all my friends at play group speechless. Well, many kids our age are largely speechless anyway, in that we don't say recognizable words, but you know what I mean. Now if I can just knock off the thumb-sucking, I'll totally be a chick magnet. Yeah. I rule. And rulers need to eat. Now. What is Dad doing over there, squeezing the soy milk out of the beans by hand?

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #23

Oh, hello there. I suppose I can take a moment away from my impersonation of the closing credits of Little House on the Prairie to tell you that I went swimming today! Yes! Dad enrolled us in a parent-and-child swimming class at the YMCA (actually, like my play group, it's basically a mom-and-child class, plus one Dad.) Anyway, the water was much warmer than the sorry excuse for a pool Mom and Dad inflated in the backyard last summer before blackening my extremities with frostbite. And not only was I more comfortable today, I looked mighty handsome in my new swim trunks. As for Dad, he looked -- well, I'm sure he looks fine at the right angle in certain types of light.

Anyway, the instructor started us out with basic skills, like kicking our legs (I eventually got the hang of it), moving our arms (all us kids were fine with that once we figured out it was basically like splashing in the tub), and blowing bubbles on the surface of the water (yeah, whatever -- I was too busy splashing my arms). By the end of the class, I was moving my arms and legs at the same time while Dad held me belly-down (don't worry, Mom -- he kept my head up). Sure, the best part of the session was playing with the rubber balls and noodles, but I feel I learned some important basics today, and I'm probably about as good a swimmer as Dad right now. I only hope I don't decide at some point that I'm afraid of the water, like Dad did when he was a boy, and end up avoiding it for years. Dad said Nonno eventually had to throw him into the pool to break the fear. Between that and the whole running-outside-naked thing, the backyard on Merritt Street wasn't exactly a fountain of positive memories, Dad, was it?

OK, back to my impersonation of the Greenbush twins, whose end-credit mad dash through the field was apparently the highlight of their television experience, since Michael Landon gave Carrie something like one line per episode. I'm told.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #22

Um, before Dad jumps in with a diaperload of fact-bending and outright fabrications, I'd like to share my side of what happened at Tuesday's play group. Despite what he told Mom, I did not fail to impress my new friend Mina with my walking. Sure, I only walked a couple of times, but that's not because I couldn't do more. You see, Mina told me that she's still developing confidence on her feet, and I didn't want to discourage her by flashing my slick moves for the entire hour. I did wander into a crowd of parents and kids and made them laugh, so that was cool. But I'm not one to be ostentatious, so I kept my efforts modest. Mina will be a better, more confident walker for it.

Oh -- by the way, Dad was probably not planning on informing you that I taught Mina and another little girl the smacking game, which is where you stand up next to a table or chair (or, in this case, a plastic bin) and smack it loudly with your palms. I had the other kids smacking along with me, and the moms and Dad were clearly getting a kick out of it. I mean, I owned the playroom. My finger was barely big enough for all the folks I had wrapped around it. Next week? World domination. You heard it here first.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #21

Sometimes I regret taking those first steps a few weeks ago, because, you know, a guy gets tired of being misrepresented. See, Mom and Dad have trouble understanding my advanced speech patterns, so I've been unable to explain to them that I'm not being lazy or stubborn when I crawl about. And though Dad thinks I choose not to walk because I can get around faster by crawling or cruising, he's not exactly right, either. Here's the thing: up until now, I simply haven't felt like walking. I mean, what's the big deal? For someone with little experience on two feet, wobbling around the room as people gawk at you isn't the most dignified thing in the world, you know. If I wanted to imitate Ted Kennedy on a Saturday night, I'd just have Mom mix a few ounces of rum into my soy milk. Of course, that's just a downward spiral that would likely lead to inviting a girl from my play group into my Radio Flyer wagon and then driving it into a swimming pool.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, walking. I've been telling Mom and Dad that I'll start walking when I feel more confident and look less goofy. And you know what? I did just that. It was partly their encouragement, really. We went to the mall on Sunday to see my cousins Sam and Ben race their pinewood derby cars, and Mom and Auntie Karen took turns holding my hands and walking me around the rotunda. Then, later that afternoon, we went to a local playground to ride the swings and slides, and Mom and Dad both held my hands and walked me around. So I was kind of in the zone when I decided, that evening, that walking is kind of fun. So I stood up and started crossing between the living room couches. Since then, I've been ambling back and forth all over the place, adding a step or two each time and generally putting huge grins on my parents' faces, which is always nice. Apparently, I had nothing to worry about -- I'm a very good walker. Sometimes I make it to my target destination, and sometimes I fall on my rump, but I even fall with grace.

Today is play group day, and I'm going to impress the heck out of that little showoff, Mina. And I promise that if we ever take a wagon ride together, I'll be extra careful. Because Dad says I can't have any rum.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #20

AAAAAAAAAHHHH! GIANT BLUE FROG! GIANT ANGRY VICIOUS HUNGRY WICKED BLUE FROG! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! HEEEEEEEEELP MEEEEE! MOOOOOOOOM! DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD! GIANT FROG! GIANT FROOOG! GIANT BABY-STEALING NIGHTMARE-INDUCING FROOOOOOOOG! AAAAAAAHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! MAKE IT STOOOOOOOOOOOP! I DON'T WANT TO GO TO MYSTIC ANYMORE! BUT THAT WON'T BE AN ISSUE IF I GET EATEN ALIVE BY THIS GIANT SLIMY HORRIBLE BLUE FROOOOOOOG! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, DECENT, AND NON-CARNIVOROUS, HEEEEEEELP! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! BEGONE, O GRINNING FROG OF DESPAIR! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #19

Hey, guess what? Dad and I are going shopping Wednesday. Yay! He's been making some pretty decent meals lately, of which I get tiny pieces. Sure, tonight's chicken, rice and broccoli is from the local Chinese place, but what do you expect from Takeout Tuesday -- or, as it's also known, Dad Ran Out of Meals So It's a Good Thing He Shops Tomorrow Day. It's a weekly event. Ripley, or at least Ripley's nose, doesn't care where the food comes from, though. I drop enough of it on the floor and the side of my chair to fill her belly. Dad says it keeps her happy -- sort of a tradeoff for whacking her upside the head and pulling her ears -- his words for what I call "petting." Dad's such a drama queen. Oh, and by the way, he had better buy a nice dessert to bake this week, coming off the Illegal Lugnuts' third straight NASCAR loss to Nate's Roos.

But enough about Dad. How about my Mom, huh? I keep hearing a power saw after I go to bed at night, so, in my curiosity, I snuck into the basement and snapped a photo. This is probably supposed to be a surprise for me, but it clearly looks like the makings of my future toy box. Either that, or it's going to contain Dad's body, if he doesn't knock it off about Jimmie Johnson being a "dirty cheater." Those black-eyed peas? They tasted all right to Mom, Dad.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #18

I am one happy dude. It's Sunday morning. I've just perused the breakfast menu and chosen the Pear y Pineapple au Gerber with a delicate Nutramigen glaze tossed with lightly moistened oatmeal a la Beech Nut. Mmm. And I've already whetted my appetite for this meal with a pre-dawn snack of tasty wallpaper. What could be better?

What, you say? I should say goodbye to the wallpaper? Well, of course ... until naptime later today, right? No? Say goodbye for good? You're kidding, right? This is a really cruel joke, so you should stop-- This isn't a joke? You are getting rid of the border? How could you? How could fate be so cruel? Oh, the woe that has descended upon me! Woe, woe, woe!

I mean, whoa. That looks really nice. Great painted wave effect, Mom. Nifty stenciling job, Dad. Sorry for the outburst. I'm only a toddler, you know.

I notice you've decided to rehang the barnyard tapestry, though. I assume you realize it's doomed.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #17

Beep beep! Beep beep beeeeeep! Man, I really love sitting up and pretending my kicky toy is a car. I even pretend I'm on one of the big NASCAR tracks, maybe Richmond or even Lowe's down in Charlotte, passing all the other drivers as the race wears on. Hey, there's Dale Jr. in my rear-view mirror! So long, sucker! And there's Jeff Gordon! Yeah, it must be the second half of the race, because Jeff"s pushing his car over to the shoulder again. Man, if points only counted for the first half of races, he'd be having a great season! Hey, remember that photo of Jeff and Auntie Lori from after Daytona? Well, it inspired me to write a riddle about these two North Carolinians. What's the difference between Auntie Lori and Jeff Gordon? Give up? Well, Lori is in her 30s, and Jeff finishes most of his races there! Ah, I crack myself up. Hey, out of the road, Maizy! Beep beep beeeeeeeeep!

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #16

Maizy, relax! Put your ears down and take a breath, for crying out loud! I can see the other stroller coming toward us, and he's not going to hit us. I swear, you have got to be the most nervous, naggy passenger I've ever strolled with. Turtellini the Turtle doesn't jump out of his shell when he rides with me. I really don't know why I took you to Mystic in my new Jeep instead of him. I don't need any more stress in my life. I'm constipated, it's been a long trip, and I'm not used these British-style strollers with the driver's seat on the wrong side. Or maybe you're in the wrong seat. Maybe you'd rather spend the rest of the day in the diaper bag. No? Then settle down, Maizy. Because so far, I'd much rather spend the afternoon at the aquarium with that nice TV mouse who shares your name. But Charley the crocodile can stay home. He'd probably fall in the fish tank.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #15

Oh, hello, Mr. Horse.  I'm sorry I have nothing to feed you, but Dad was too cheap to buy the 50-cent cup of horse kibble at the entrance to the petting barn.  Ah, no matter -- I can grip and hold things really well, but I tend to be a bit random in where I throw them, and you might just get annoyed if I tried to feed you. And I wouldn't want to annoy you -- you're pretty cool, unlike the pathetic, begging donkey a few stalls away. Man, he's worse than Maverick. Anyway, Mom, Dad and I have been at this fair for almost two hours, and I'm gonna need a nap soon, so they're taking me home. I got to see a lot of stuff -- award-winning veggies, local crafts, even a horse show. Were you in it? Nah, I didn't think so. They all seemed kind of snooty, all like, look at me, I'm in a horse show, whoop-dee-doo, but you're not like that. You're pretty down-to-earth. I hope Mom and Dad buy me a horse someday. I know Mom really wants one. Hey, you don't talk much, do you? Actually, after spending all week hanging out with Dad, that's not such a bad thing.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #14

Well, well. Let's go buy a pool for Nathan, they said. Of course, no one bothered to ask Nathan his feelings on the matter, or tell him about the effects of various water temperatures on delicate baby skin. Nope, they just went ahead with their pool plan, inflated it, blew up this yellow baby-torture device, and just dunked my tender butt into it. And I screamed. Boy, did I scream. I believe they caught it on video, a copy of which they are planning to send to Nonna and Nonno. So, my dear grandparents, before you witness this incriminating footage, please understand that my apparent ease and comfort in this water now, several minutes later, does not excuse the obvious abuse of dunking my feet and legs (which are now bumping up against an iceberg, I believe) to begin with. Actually, scratch that. I don't know what my feet are bumping into, because I can't feel them anymore! Now, I'm not manually dexterous enough to dial a telephone yet, but if anyone has the number for Social Services, you know what to do. Furthermore, I ... I ... hey, you know what? This swimming thing is kind of fun. But don't tell Mom and Dad, OK? Oh, and by the way -- I hope the filter is working, if you know what I mean.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #13

Man, I like tub time. I can't wait until I'm big enough for the real tub -- I'm certainly outgrowing this blue thing they put over the kitchen sink. Yes, the sink, where Mom washes me like I'm a dirty pot or something. A pot with a case of cradle lid. Even so, it's satisfying to take a nice, warm bath at the end of a hard day of rolling and talking and pooping and eating and (sometimes) cranking. Then it's on to towel time, and I love towel time. I even -- hey, wait a second. Is that a camera? Are you taking my picture? But I'm-- (click) -- naked! HEY, YOU TOOK MY PICTURE! Are you some kind of perv? What the hell is the matter with you? Now see what you made me do? Yes, you made me swear, and you know how Auntie Lori hates that. Man, I am disgusted. I'm really angry about this. A naked photo? Man, oh, man. Well, if you must have one, just make sure it stays at home, in the family album. I do not need this sort of thing showing up on the Internet.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #12

Are we rolling? Yes? OK. Hi, I'm Nathan from Massachusetts. I'm sure grateful for the opportunity to audition for the role of Bob from Quiznos #4, now that Bob #3 is getting a little old. Did you know there were two Bobs before him? It's true. The first one suffered a horrible Enfamil-related rash, and then his replacement -- or, should I say, the kid's agent -- got cocky after seeing some early test footage, and demanded a huge raise. Um, kid, we're all cute at this age, even though I carry it off better than most, I must say. So, where was I? Oh, that's right, auditioning to be the new Bob. Now, I've never actually been to Quiznos, so I'll have to improvise from my own experiences. Ready? Good. "Hi, I'm Bob from Quiznos. I was just sitting in my chair the other night, watching Mom and Dad eat a nice dinner of chicken marsala with mashed potatoes. Dad screwed up the taters -- they came out pasty -- but they still tasted good. And the chicken, dancing in that sweet marsala wine, sure smelled good. And I wondered, why must I be tortured like this? All day it's nothing but that Nutramigen crap, which doesn't even taste like milk, and at dinner I'm forced to endure the tempting images and delectable scents of real food, yet I get nothing! Even the dogs got a bite, for crying out loud! The dogs! How could my parents treat me this way? I'm telling ya -- when my molars come in, rrrrow. I'm gonna bite the bastards." (Long pause) So, did I get the gig?

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #11

See, Mom and Dad? See how easy it is to please me? I cranked, cried and grumped for two full hours tonight, but when you put me in my stroller, leashed up the dogs, and took me on a lovely, moonlit ride around the block, I suddenly became happy as a clam! Well, not a clam that's been harvested off the ocean floor, scooped out of its shell, chopped, breaded and deep-fried as part of the Friendly's clam basket. That's no happy clam. No way. I mean, Friendly's? If I'm a clam and I've just become part of the great food chain of life, I really don't want to wind up at Friendly's. How about a nice, pricey place with candles on the tables and a full wine list? And part of my description on the menu should be in French. You know, something like "clams provençale," served with julienne potatoes and a sampling of delicately seasoned asparagus, not fries and slaw. I mean, that would be cool. Even the Red Lobster kitchen would be a fate preferable to Friendly's. Now, on the other hand, if I was a strawberry growing ripe in a field, minding my own business, and suddenly I was plucked and tossed into a bin, I wouldn't mind winding up at Friendly's, because Dad always orders extra strawberry topping on his sundaes, so it must taste good. Friendly's must be a place of honor for a strawberry, actually. Not for a clam, though. Nuh-uh. Um, what was I just talking about? Oh, the stroll around the block. Yeah, that was great.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #10

So, Dad fancies himself a good dog handler, huh? I've only been out of the womb for two months, and I already handle him much better than he handles Mavi. Of course, sometimes I get hit with faults, too, as laid out in the AKC agility guidelines. For instance, when Dad doesn't give me my bottle within five seconds of me asking for it, that's called a refusal. And when I get placed on my playmat when I really want to go for a stroller ride? Wrong course. And speaking of the stroller, what if the curb is too high and he pushes me over anyway? That's a fly-off. And when Dad isn't able to soothe my crankiness and passes me off to Mom? Failure to control. That's a lot to think about, isn't it? But to Dad's credit (he's actually pretty obedient), I've never been hit with the worst possible fault -- and let's hope it never happens. That's when I get hungry, but there are no bottles in reserve on the refrigerator shelf. That's right -- the dreaded run-out. I'm shuddering just thinking about it.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #9

Well, well. Look where Dad's taking me. Into the woods. The big, scary woods. And if Mom's taking this photograph, she must be in on the plan, too. You know, I'm young enough to remember those many terrifying nights inside the womb, when I was a captive audience to all manner of horror stories that fall under the heading of "fairy tales." Oh, yes, I remember. First there was "Red Riding Hood," in which a hideous wolf devours people alive -- in the woods -- before being disemboweled with an ax. And who could ever forget "Hansel and Gretel," in which two innocent children are left by their parents to starve to death -- in the woods -- before being imprisoned by a mean witch? And if memory serves, wasn't "The Three Bears," a veritable primer on property crime, set mainly in the woods? Things are not looking up right now. So, I'm asking you nicely, Dad -- pleading with you, in fact -- to return with me and Mom to the parking lot, and let's just go home. Nothing good can come of walking in the woods. I mean it, Dad. Look at my eyes. They're practically begging you! But no -- it's no use. I think you're ignoring me. I think you're actually going through with this. I think I should have brought along some bread crumbs.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #8

So, here's the deal. Um, nice try, Dad. Way to try to put me down at 8:30 last night, when the sky was clearly not dark yet. Have you not been paying attention? This is how it goes: I get fed sometime in the early evening. Then I get to ruin a perfectly good evening of TV with my incredible crankiness -- or at least force Mom to hold me until my whines become low whimpers and finally subside. Then, most nights, I get a soothing, relaxing bath around 10. Then I get my final bottle and go to bed. Um, that's our deal! We made a deal! Why do you think I sleep so well at night? You try to pull last night's nonsense again, and you'll get the same result -- serious crying. What? Come again? There was nothing good on TV last night? I don't care! I can be cranky during a test pattern just as easily as I can while Jack Bauer is threatening to torture his new girlfriend's brother shortly after getting her husband killed. I mean, cranky is cranky; what's on the tube hardly matters. The point is, I'm not going to bed at 8:30. Period. Huh? What's that? You might try the 8:30 stunt again tonight, but bathe me first? You wouldn't! That's not fair! Baths are too soothing! Don't you dare! Hey! Do you hear me? Hey!!!

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #7

So, listen, Colorful Dog with No Name. There seems to be some debate raging within my family surrounding whether I really do have the head of a Jedi-murdering dark lord or the cheeks of a giant, slothlike intergalactic mob boss. My Uncle Dan recently suggested that my rugged good looks might more closely resemble Bob from Quizno's, that obnoxious infant who's always complaining that his molars haven't grown in yet, instead of being happy about the many things he does have -- namely, the power of speech and a successful advertising career. Ungrateful little snot. I've heard those are good subs, though. So, anyway, Colorful Dog with No Name -- how's it hanging? Ha! Get it? How's it hanging? Because you're hanging by a purple hook above my play area! Ha ha ha! Oh, right. I guess I'm not being very sympathetic or compassionate. I guess it's the Darth or Jabba in me. Sorry. (Long, awkward silence) So. Aaanyway. That's not really a rhinofish up there, is it?

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #6

Bathtime. Man, I hate bathtime. Sure, it's nice to feel refreshed afterward, but no kid likes a bath while it's happening. The water's nice enough while Mom's washing me, but if Dad doesn't keep basting me with the washcloth while he holds me up, I get really cold. And then I get cranky. You wouldn't like me when I'm cranky. And Dad thinks he's funny, too. See this blue towel? He thinks it came from a prop closet, the way he arranges it on me when he should be concentrating on drying me off. Oh, look -- it's a blue cowl around my head. I'm the Virgin Mary! Oh, look -- it's a blue loincloth. I'm John the Baptist! Oh, look -- it's a blue turban. The Slurpee machines are in the back, beside the lottery table! Thank you, come again! I swear, I can't take this anymore. Sure, Mr. Funny Guy is fine when he's feeding me or playing with me on my little mat, but he really doesn't know when to knock off the yuks and concentrate on keeping me dry and warm. Aarrgh! He's so annoying! I definitely should have cried more during 24 tonight.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #5

Property of the Red Sox? Property? What is this, the 1840s? When did I get sold? Did they get a lot of money for me? And why did they get to keep me? Is this some sort of rent-to-buy agreement? Or is it like the mortgage, where the bank owns the house for 25 years, but they get to live in it? If this Red Sox thing is like that, then why do I have to wear a shirt proclaiming my servitude? I don't see a sign on the house reading "Property of Banknorth," do you? No! Is there a bumper sticker on Mom's Explorer that announces, "Property of Ford Credit"? No, there is not! And when this transaction is consummated and the Red Sox make their last payment, do I get to go live with them? If so, where will I sleep, in a luxury box? In the clubhouse? On a hastily assembled cot up in the Monster seats? Do I get to take batting practice and travel with the team? Can I be a batboy? I'd sure like to hang out with Johnny Damon so I can ask him how he got all that hair. Dad says I look like Frank Black of the Pixies, and Mom says I look like Darth Vader with his helmet off. I'd rather have hair, so this emotional abuse would cease. But by the time I have a full head of hair, I'm sure I'll be living with the Red Sox. Then Mom and Dad will be sorry they picked on me. Still, I'm not really comfortable with the whole property concept. So much to think about. So many moral issues. So very tired. So very, very tired. So...zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #4

What's today, Thursday? Ah, yes. Survivor and Apprentice night. Quite frankly, I'm not sure how cranky I want to be this evening. Mom and Dad have really gotten me into this reality TV stuff, and I don't want to miss anything. I mean, I am totally down with Steph on Survivor. Great player -- and she can really plead her case when her butt's on the line. It's like that night (middle of said night, actually) when I was supposed to go to sleep, but I passionately explained -- in firm, measured sobs -- why I should be allowed to stay awake. So Mom rocked me for another half-hour and voted to send Dad to bed instead (because he was being useless, like Janu). As for The Apprentice, I need to see whether that jerk Craig gets fired tonight. What a condescending diaperload he is, letting Kendra do all the work in the brochure challenge and then treating her like total crap afterward! It's like when I refuse to stretch out my legs when Dad's trying to put my outfit on, making it harder to snap the snaps -- but he still manages to get the job done. And how do I repay him? By crying during the very next changing that he's not doing it right! Ha ha! Yeah, we'll all have a laugh about that someday. Good times. Hey, is it lunch yet? I am starving.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #3

So they're all proud of me for how I behaved at Cracker Barrel, eh? Well, I was off my game that night. Last I checked, Dad hadn't posted anything about how I acted the following morning when they tried to take me to breakfast at a local dining spot. Perhaps he didn't want anyone to know about how Mom had to rock me in her arms in between bites of her veggie omelet. And how Dad felt like the strong coffee just wasn't strong enough. Go on, Dad -- boast of my goodness if you will. But know that I possess reserves of crankiness that you cannot even comprehend! I am the Supreme Commander! My power and cuteness know no bounds! My -- hey, what are you looking at, cat? Come on over, buddy, and take a look at this hand. Four fingers. Two for each of your eyes, with a thumb to spare. Try it, fuzzball. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Breakfast. Man, I'm hungry.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #2

Look at that nose. Just look at it. He thinks I have his nose? Man, I hope not. That thing could be an Olympic venue. Or else, it should have a tiny track running down it with a "do not stand up" sign at the very top. And that forehead! I know I have his forehead now, but that'll change once my hair starts coming in. Dad's forehead kind of resembles that barren African plain where the Amazing Race contestants spent a night recently. Oh? You hadn't heard? Well, no surprise there, since Dad seems to have abandoned his weekly reviews of the show. He says my birth and his two-week break from blogging threw him off. That's my Dad -- the king of excuses. He has more excuses than hair. Oh, wait -- that's not too difficult. Um, his list of excuses is longer than his nose. Yeah. That's more like it. Man, this lunch is tasty.

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #1

OK, so let's see. If I sleep for the rest of the afternoon, I'll have plenty of energy for the overnight shift. Dad's pretty funny when he staggers around in the middle of the night like Ted Kennedy on Monday morning. Of course, I'll have to use some of my saved-up energy during Survivor -- I know they hate watching TV without an accompanying chorus of fussy little moans. Yeah -- that's it. Sleep a bit now, a little Survivor crying, rest up a little longer, then go for the big finish at 1:30 a.m. Brilliant! I think I could -- hey, wow, these cheeks are soft.