Give my regards to...

...a sweaty, ABC gum-covered auditorium in Parsippany, New Jersey.

After 9 months in tap/ballet Brooklyn's long-awaited performance had arrived. Roughly a thousand bucks and 40 trips to class ended with a bunch of parents pulling themselves away from the couch to don their best mustard-stained WWE paraphernalia and watch kids lunge about a creaky high school stage for 2 hours. Anticipation hung in the air, palpable like Brut cologne, which also hung in the air since 50% of the Fathers kept an extra bottle in the glove compartment of the Fiero for 'special occasions'.

Brooklyn's class, a gaggle of Pre-K giggling girls, tap-danced to Annie's 'You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile'. It was really cute, but lasted all of 80 seconds. 80 fetching seconds - here, take my money.

In all seriousness, it was a cute performance and the girl in the middle really was the best. ;)

It's what you wear from ear to ear, and not from head to toe...

That matters...

Sheree recently told Bear "we'll water the plants tomorrow, tomorrow" - to which he replied "I luv ya, tomorrow...", attempting to complete the Annie ditty.

At Brooklyn's practice recital the week before the performance, here is Braden looking mad because he spent the day in a sort of all-day rolling time-out. This kid really can flip the switch from "ruly" to "unruly" to "beyond Thunderdome" in a matter of minutes.

Instead of using his words to let us know he's done with the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, he thinks it's just hi-larious to dump the bowl on his head. Actually, he thinks any mess that someone else has to clean up is hilarious.

Brittiny and I have Birthdays a week apart, so Nano

blesses our house with the Twin Abes come June. Wow, another Bday.

But I don't need Nano's thoughtful fin to realize that I am old.

The other day I spent 20 minutes looking for the Icy Hot, then proceeded to blame my prolonged search on the kids having 'gotten into my stuff'.

Who does that sound like, Dad???

Teach your children well...

... to do as you say, not as you do. Otherwise you risk a child exposing, in you, the moral hazard oft-cited in connection with government programs and the mafia.

Exhibit A:

Dad

"No candy, honey, we eat good things because they help us stay healthy and keep our bodies strong."

The 4 year-old daughter

"Then you need to eat more good things, fat-boy."

Dad

"Brooklyn, remember that in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation. We do pray for mercy. And that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy."

The 4 year-old daughter

"Dad, I have some good news and some bad news. The really bad news is that you are getting fat. Well, I don't really have any good news."

Stiff upper lip and all while your child argues her way out of a teachable moment and reveals your dichotomic actions - without even taking her attention away from Wow Wow Wubbzy - then nuzzle up to some Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby.

Picture of Bear-Bear on the cusp of "being up to no good". He has this look that makes you compulsively recount all the Sharpies in the kitchen drawer and sit straining your ears to listen for the gentle trickle of running water somewhere in the house.

Brittiny was craving Baja's, a Mexican food joint in CT one Saturday morning, and Pregnant Wife gets what Pregnant Wife wants: a trip to the ol' stomping grounds and authentic guacamole. Here we walked along the Waste Haven boardwalk.

Brittiny and Brookers in Wooster Park. We had to pay Brooklyn $5 to get her to smile.

The kids and I are petting a very friendly chocolate lab mix. His name was Unconditional Surrender.

Bear playing in Wooster Park. I like this picture 'cause he looks like a little dude.

Now he's hanging around.

Brooklyn looking beautiful and sweet. How I'll miss these days when she's somewhere between age 10 and How-Ever-Old-Kellie-is-Right-Now.

The erosion of bedtime stories in the Epperson household...

is nearly complete. Time was I would bring elaborate plot-lines and character-specific voices into the evening storytelling. Subtly I would lead Brooklyn, wide-eyed, through a world of grotesque monsters, angelic princesses and involved social situations. The plot-lines were complicated and imaginative (think Dexter) and the action intense (think Remo Williams). But, sadly, I realize that the situation has somehow changed.

To wit, here is a portion from Brookers' favorite bedtime story 2 years ago:

"...the Prince rode his horse swiftly up the winding stone path toward Maleficent's dark castle perched atop the jagged peaks of the Devil's Backbone, the steed's hooves producing sharp metronomic clicks that scattered into the still night. The brave Prince Phillip slipped his hand down toward the glowing Sword of Truth and closed his fingers around its leather-wrapped handle. The cold steel grew warm to his touch, a pale blue light eking out from the edges of the scabbard..."

I used to care. I used to watch Brooklyn's reaction to every line of the story. She would pull the covers up to right under her nose when Maleficent were in a scene, beam when I described Aurora dancing with her Prince, and squirm (but also ask for me to repeat the details) when they finally smooched.

Here's what she and Braden got last night:

"...so the Prince was like, hey, how come we have this report running in UAT but no requirements were drawn up? And then the evil co-worker was like: Oh, didn't you see that e-mail - it went out to the whole kingdom?

And then the Prince went home and his Princess was all: make me some nachos - now the cheese is too bubbled, how long did you nuke these - do everything I say - is that your wet towel on the bed - I'm pregnant - hang that shelf in the laundry room."

Yeah, I can only imagine how little effort I'll put forward with #3.

It's been a while...

since we last blogged. No real changes with us. Brittiny and I have divided time between our kids & Matlock reruns on Lifetime. All is well, no complaints.

Brittiny had to bribe Brooklyn to let her snap some pics. She's growing up so fast. Before I know it I'll be time to go pawnshopping for a shotgun.


Braden is now old enough to fore-go the nightly milk. Instead he and Brookers now share a pre-bedtime protein shake.


Brooklyn & her Pre-school pals made Rice Krispie treats. Little Andrew, in the green smock, always finds excuses to give Brooklyn a hug. He always finds her at church and invents excuses to get close to her. The day he breaks out some Li'l Buckaroo cologne it's gonna be curtains for the whole group Pre-school experiment.


A few months back we had a couple of big snowstorms. The kids loved playing in the snow. I couldn't get the kids to come inside, so I lied and said I saw a snow-snake. It worked to get them back in the house. Uncle Don also sprinted to the front door as well.


Bear playing with Nina. I think Nina gets frustrated with Bear's weak throwing arm. I've noticed that as the tennis ball duties have naturally been abdicated to grandchildren Nina has grown increasingly 'hippy'.


Brooklyn with gal pal Avery. Those two were like a couple of long lost teen girl squad members reunited.


Bear is growing up too fast, too. Time for another baby!

Women Be Shopping...

"Honey, can you come here?" he heard faintly from beyond the monochromatic layers of overpriced and inconsequential blouses. They hung in a perfect row, flowing gently against the breeze of a nearby department store air conditioner that hummed quietly to ensure a comfortable shopping ambience. He envied the air conditioner, answering only to the predictable, rational demands of electricity and natural physical laws.

Maybe in another time, another place, he could aspire to an existence as purposeful as that of the Haier cooling unit - today he was an indentured shopper.

The voice, though soft and feminine, weighed him down. She was a woman driven by two insatiable desires: to adorn her physique and simultaneously suck the will to live from his body - the latter she accomplished one dollar at a time. He turned slowly and rose from his seat, glazed and tired eyes perceiving the faint outlines of odd, oblong shapes set at strange angles across the jumbled floor. Years ago, he thought, an architect had designed this Filene's edifice with the sole purpose of illuminating and exaggerating the beauty of its merchandise. Lights were hung at the perfect height, mirrors mounted lengthwise along every wall with a reflective marble floor offering a sharp "click, click" as the lioness prowls around in pumps hunting her prey. But his male eyes ignored the bait, impervious to the sinister, careful niche marketing. His mind flitted, instead, back to the tumbling football that glanced off the upright in the afternoon JETS game - wide left - he would have made $20. Oh well.

Plodding along, slow methodical steps navigating clumsily through the crumpled morasse of fashion and fabric, the silhouette of what appeared to be his wife came subtly into focus near an open changing room door. He blinked to clear his blurred vision, then picked his head up slightly and rested his gaze on what appeared to be her feet. He didn't have the energy to straighten his neck and look into her eyes, and he wasn't sure he could peer into them even if he must. His ears strained to listen as he mouth moved rapidly, words flying from her lips as if she were the MicroMachine guy hawking miniature cars:

"...having a hard time deciding blah blah blah... already have a shrug, you know, but it's not blah blah blah... if I were looking for something more formal, then obviously blah blah blah... can always bring it back if blah blah... just to die for blah blah blah!"

What he perceived as a brief pause in her shopping sermon was quickly followed by several moments of silence. Oh no. Small beads of sweat seeped from his forehead and pupils constricted to narrow his vision - silence was never good. He forced the kind of smile a damaged Kirk Gibson feigned for Tommy Lasorda before walking toward the on deck circle in Game 1 - a smile that masks anguish and assures the its recipient that everything is fine - then raised his head to meet her gaze.

"So?" she asked with a tone that left him unsure if the inquisition were rhetorical or desperate for an answer. Hearkening back to a particularly informative episode of the Simpsons he remembered Homer's advice that women always want compliments.

"Looks great!", he blurted, reaching out to touch her shirt. He modified his affect, forcing a semi-furtive smile, and rubbed the fabric gently between his thumb and forefinger. "Very nice, and the shirt looks really good with the pants. I can definitely see you in this." He let his hand drop back to his side, proud of himself for a moment.

Her face was expressionless, her blue eyes a little cold: "These are my clothes - I wore them into the store. You're an idiot."