Last year the first day of Holidailies was my first day home from the hospital with a new baby that no one knew about. Now the Young and the Stealthy is a year old. I still cannot believe it. Look at him then as compared to now:

Why are most of my pictures of him in his high chair? Because that's when I can keep him still. Every time I try to snap him while he is playing, the picture becomes one of the carpet and his butt, with the rest of him out of frame. In fact, while I am writing this, he is in his high chair, throwing Cheerios at the dog, and I have resorted to playing Raffi's "Bananaphone" on repeat. (And dancing like an idiot in my chair, but we won't discuss that.)

We somehow missed the Raffi boat with Leah. I am not sure if that's because we were (and are) obsessed with the Jim Henson oeuvre (sorry, I love the word oeuvre, even though I can never pronounce it), or because we did what we mostly do with this one, which is listen to regular music. We've only heard "Bananaphone" due to Harry Potter. I bought the CD a couple of weeks ago, and let me tell you, I am not entirely sorry to have avoided him altogether; I think my tolerance for earnest idealism has waned over the years. Not that Raffi is aimed at my demographic, but dammit, I'm stuck listening to him in the car, and soulful paeans to trees do not have the same kind of groove as, say, "99 Problems". Not that I necessarily listen to Jay-Z while hauling children around, but still.

I might as well. Last night we were walking back to the truck after the downtown Christmas tree lighting; I came right home from work and we all piled in the car. KC jumped out at the fire house and went on a call, leaving me to wrangle both kids. Which was fine, we have a stroller and he left me the keys, so either he'd catch up with me or he'd get a ride home, either way. Anyway, I had no socks on, because I'd had no time to change, and after the tree was lit (and Leah cried because I refused to buy a FIVE DOLLAR LIGHTSTICK HOLY SHIT WHAT A FUCKING RIP-OFF; my hissing lecture on what I would not buy just to have it dumped in a corner for her and Griffin to fight over six months down the road lasted for two blocks) we headed down to the carriage ride, where after a long wait she got to sit next to Santa and have hot chocolate at the end.

My point is, we were all numb, and I had no socks. We were walking back to the station to get in the truck, and my feet were like blocks of ice. And I start singing, under my breath (or so I thought) to the tune of "Deck the Halls":

"I am freezing my damn tits off/Fa la la la la, it's fucking cold."

Leah cracked up.

"OH SHIT. Mommy didn't say that."

"Yeah yeah yeah. You always say that. It's okay, Mommy, it's still funny. I know not to say it...SING IT AGAIN!"

. . . We interrupt this irregularly scheduled entry to note that my son has a pair of his sister's (clean) underwear on his head. And he is crawling into the dog crate. (Liz, you still out there? Taking notes? This is a good one. WHY ARE MY KIDS SO WEIRD? No one answer that.) . . .

I also quit my job a month earlier than planned; my last day was yesterday. This makes me cry, when I let it. When I do not let it, I ponder my next move, which is two classes at the community college for the spring semester, then going for my teaching certificate in the fall, with my eventual goal a history MA. Yes, I went to a teacher's college for four (and a half) years to major in International Relations, only to decide to be a teacher at the age of 35. A role model is me. Shut up.

I'll be working part-time, too, though it won't be anything to write home about.

Part time job, part time school, full time parent. This is going to be an interesting year.