The Plan

I start most days with a To-Do list. Recently Bob has adopted his own daily lists, he calls them "The Plan." He dictates the parts of The Plan to me and during the day calls out "Check!" each time an item is completed. The Plan for Tuesday was as follows:

1. Wear pajamas all day long.

2. Play with MeeMee. (My mother)

2-1/2. Wearing sandals and shoes.

3. Mama comes back.

4. Play.

5. Go to Aunt Jen's house for dinner.

6. Come home.

7. Play time.

8. Eat and drink things.

9. Tinkle and poop. ("Oh! Don't forget!")

10. Bedtime for naptime.

(Check)

Unleavened

Last night we celebrated Passover with a Seder dinner at Jeff’s folks house. Passover, Pesach, is the holy day and festival commemorating the Hebrew’s escape from enslavement in Egypt. A traditional Seder dinner is long winded. It features many starchy and bland-ish snacks. There is singing and reading in Hebrew. For those that drink, there is much drinking of Manischewitz, which from what I can tell is like the box wine of the Jews. And there is more reading and singing and singing and reading. And there is reading.

One tradition, designed to help keep the kids awake during the meal, is the hiding of the Afikomen. During the fourth part of the Seder, the leader hides the afikomen (matzoh bread wrapped in a napkin) and the children will look for it after dinner in order to win a prize or some coins.

We sped read through the Haggadah, the text that lists the traditions. At the end of the meal, Bob took off in search of the afikomen. We led him through the house by yelling out “hot” or “cold" to direct him. At last (blazing hot!) he ended up in the hall closet. Bob emerged victorious with the afikomen in hand. He held it aloft and said, “Como estas, afikomen?”

I would like to attribute his remark to a well balanced mutli-cultural home life, rich in the customs of his diverse Mexican/Indian/Swedish/Irish/Jewish background. Instead, I will give credit where credit is due: Muchas gracias, Dora the Explorer.

Leaving on a Jet Plane and a Shuttle Bus and a Rental Car

Bob asked to pack his own suitcase for our recent trip up north. The contents of his Thomas the Tank Engine suitcase were as follows:

Bug Pajamas
Spiderman Pajamas
Vintage Maps Crib Blanket ("Do they got beds there at that hotel?")
Animals of Denali Photo Book
2" Abe Lincoln Figurine
Pirate's Treasure Chest
3-D Glasses
Saxophone
Blue Motorcycle
"Gene the Construction Guy"
"Joe the Truck Driver Guy"
"That One Guy"
Tiffany & Co Drawstring Bag - Empty
Thomas the Tank Engine Stationmaster Figurine
"That Other One Guy With the Beard"

* Note: Separate backpack filled with Star Wars supplies not pictured.

Smacksy Sunday Link: Young Me/Now Me Project

This Buzzfeed link is a brilliant sample of people recreating photos of themselves as kids taken from Ze Frank's Young Me/Now Me Project. My friend Wendy Liebman sent me this link and although I'm not a big LOL-er, I totally LOL-ed.

I think you'll LOL too.

Smacksy Saturday Photo: Hams

Cheese.
Happy Saturday.

The Reviews Are In: A One Act

THE REVIEWS ARE IN

I am in the kitchen doing the dishes. BOB enters.

BOB

What are you doing in here, Mama?

ME

I’m singing.

BOB

What is that song?

ME

It’s the theme to The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

BOB

It’s a bad song.

ME

You’re wrong, my love. It’s a classic.

BOB

Classic and not good. What is it from?

ME

It’s from a TV show.

BOB

What TV show? Yo Gabba Gabba?

ME

The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

BOB

If they sing it on that show then you should just let the TV do its job.

ME

Wow. Thanks.


END SCENE

Jedi School

"Hey, Bud? Slow down with the stick please."

"This is not a stick, Mama. It's a light saber."

"Okay. No running with the light saber please."

"I am not running. I am fighting."

"Great. Slow down the fighting please."

"I can not go slow. I'm teaching Jedi school."

"I don't want you to fall and scrape yourself with your Jedi deal."

"Light saber."

"With your light saber."

"It's not a scraping weapon. And I use the force."

"Just be careful please."

"Mama, I am going to have to freeze you in carbonite like Han Solo."

"I understand."

My Morning Monologue

Okay, Bob? We’ve got to get a move on or we’re going to be late for school. Take your hand out of your pants please. Did you finish your egg? It’s show and let go of your penis tell today. Did you pick something to bring? I like that but please keep your hand out thank you the color this week is yellow so what you’re showing and telling about needs to be yellow. Touching privates is for a private time. Perfect.

Let’s get your shirt on. Why not? Sure, wait, do you have to pee? No? Are you sure? Then let go of it that shirt’s fine. Oh sorry, let me stretch out the neck a little so your noggin will fit in easier. Great. Let’s put your truck in a bag it's a wonderful penis, but I don't need to see it right now with your name on it. Where are your shoes? Are they by the back door? The bathroom? I don’t know. Hand out of pants. Under the ottoman? You look there and I’ll look on the service porch. Nope. Oh, great, bring them over let your wiener go, Babe and we’ll put on your sneakers.

I think you’re going to need a sweatshirt. Let’s get out to the car. Come on, Pooch. And keep your hand off of it.

Say Hello

Last December, I traveled to the town I grew up in to attend a memorial service. I was friends with Chris in high school and had reconnected with him in the past few years on Facebook. When he died it was unexpected. Those of us that knew him found it hard to wrap our brains around the idea that one of our peers had passed. He was funny and warm and now, missed.

Once a week or so, Facebook will shuffle Chris's profile photo into the sidebar of my homepage and suggest that I,
Reconnect with him
or
Share the latest news
or
Say hello.
And I always do.
And I like the reminder.

Logic

"So mama are you going to drive me the six blocks to pre-school then go on the walking machine at the YMCA across the street from my school and do lots of walking and then drive the six blocks home and then drive the car six blocks back to pick me up after my school is done and then we’ll drive the six blocks back to our house?"

"What’s your point, Bob?"

Smacksy Sunday Link: Chatroulette and The Piano Guy

Chatroulette in action

If you're not familiar with Chatroulette yet, you are obviously not a 14 year-old girl or a pervy-ish dude. Chatroulette is a website that pairs random strangers for webcam-based conversations. Visitors to the website randomly begin an online chat (video, audio and text) with another visitor. At any point, either user may leave the current chat by initiating another random connection. (Thanks Wikipedia.)

In other words, Chatroulette is every mother's nightmare and a great place to hang out if you're interested in seeing a lot of guys suddenly shedding their underpants. (I'll pass. I have a 3 year-old for that.)

This link is the best use of Chatroulette I have seen yet. (And no chonies on view.)

Happy Sunday, guys.

Smacksy Saturday Photo: How We Roll

I see 2-ply, he sees skyscrapers.

Research

Things that hurt when you step on them barefoot, recent findings:

• Sponge Bob themed SIGG water bottle cap

• Playmobil garbage truck driver, "Rick"

• 3” wooden watermelon slice

• Battery operated fire truck toothbrush

• Sesame Street play thermometer, Elmo themed

• Boy’s clip on bow tie, navy blue

• Thomas the Tank Engine Pez dispenser

• Dismantled ladder from remote control fire truck

• Rocks, assorted ("The good ones from by the sprinkler thing.")

• Heavy aluminum 2” Abraham Lincoln figurine

• Legos, all models

• Play-Doh any form, hardened

• Emily and matching coal tender, wooden

• Legos (necessitates second mention)

• Handy Manny motorcycle wrench

• Time with Elmo book, esp. push buttons

• Matchbox cars, all; esp. tow truck

• Luke Skywalker miniature action figure, decapitated

• Plastic replica Spirit of St. Louis 2” in diameter

***Research is ongoing. You are invited to add your own results.

The Sounds

Two and a half years ago, Bob made the big move out of our bed and into his own. In an effort to reinforce his bedtime routine, we bought him a noise machine, or as he calls it The Sounds. The machine offers eight different themes such as “Sunset Beach”, “Spring Meadow”, and “Creekside.” We let Bob choose his favorite and he went with “Rain Storm.” In his room, it rained all night, every night. It's a miracle that he is not a bed-wetter.

The other evening as I was tucking Bob into bed he said, “I think I’m done with The Sounds.”

“Alright. You mean just for tonight?”

“No, I think I’m done for always. I want to hear the world.”

I turned off The Sounds and thought about this tiny milestone. This was a sneaky one and I hadn’t expected it. It was another nudge from baby to boy. We sat, holding hands and listened. The real sounds of the world offered a distant motorcycle, the barking of a neighbor’s dog, an airplane.

“Mama, I don’t think you need to hold my hand while I fall asleep anymore.”

Now this was too fast. With my next exhale he would be borrowing the car and showing me some piercing he’d gotten on a spot on his body that I didn’t know could be pierced. He would be introducing me to his future wife or husband. He would be bringing See's candy when he came to visit Jeff and I at our condo in Leisure Village. My heart beat a little faster. I tried to pull myself back to the moment.

“Sure, sweetheart.” I slipped my hand out of his and sat still on the edge of the bed. A car pulled into the driveway across the street. Our cat padded across the wood floor in the living room.

“So, Mama? That’s not so good. I need your hand back.”

“Okay. I’m right here.” We held hands. I was right there.

"Truly wonderful, the mind of a child is." Thanks, Yoda.

As I drove Bob to pre-school this morning, I heard this from the backseat, “You look like Yoda.”

“What’s that?”

“You look like Yoda, Mama.”

If this was intended as a compliment, I did not accept it in the spirit in which it was intended. I have received many comments over the years pointing out my supposed resemblance to various celebrities, some more flattering than others. But Yoda? That definitely bumped Nancy Kerrigan and Bjork higher up the list.

Glancing at myself in the rearview mirror only proved Bob’s keen powers of observation. My 4 hours of tossing and turning and damning to hell daylight saving time combined with my usual over caffeinated and under moisturized situation weren’t looking good.

I cleared my schedule and made a mental list of personal maintenance chores that I would be doing after drop off: eyebrow maintenance, mani/pedi, heavy-duty depilatory, deep cleansing mask, and teeth whitening, followed by the extra-strength complexion cream that I got that free sample of in the mail a couple of weeks ago. I timed it out in my head. I thought I could make it all happen before I had to pick Bob back up after circle time.

“It’s okay, Mama. I like Yoda. Yoda’s one of the good guys.”

I decided Saturday might be the right day to use that gift certificate for a facial that I’ve been holding on to since my birthday. Much exfoliating to do, still I have.

The Helper Droid

Bob's monologue of Star Wars facts started when he woke up at 6:40am and is still going strong at 11:15am as we drive down the 110 freeway.

“… so then Mama, General Grievous was broken and he had to have a helper droid fix him and Darth Vader.”

“Right. And who helps us when we get broken?”

“God.”

“Wow. I was going for ‘doctor’ but I like you answer better.”

“God can fix anyone.”

“Bob, I think you’re what is called an old soul.”

“I’m going to be four on my birthday.”

I'm A Loser, Baby

Some of my favorite devastatingly talented blog pals and I recently entered the 2010 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition, Humor Category - Global. I’ll kill the suspense right here for you: None of us won. Not even one Honorable Mention among us.

The thing is, we rocked the Erma hard, running our usual deals through an Erma-fied filter. Today we present our Festival of Failure. (Cue applause)

Read the glorious losing entries of:
Wendi Aarons of Wendi Aarons
Ann Imig of Ann's Rants
Anna Lefler of Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder
and
She didn't enter this particular writer race, but Jennifer Sutton of These Are Days had some lovely things to say about Ms. Bombeck, the original mommy blogger.

Here is my loser entry. Enjoy.


The Trade
by Lisa Page Rosenberg

I was a tidy single person. By “tidy,” I mean that my obsessive orderliness bordered on pathological. By “bordered,” I mean I combed the fringe out on my area rugs three times a day. The shirts in my closet were arranged by color and sleeve length. I used a lint roller every morning on the cat. When friends were coming over I would purposely mess something up in my apartment so that I would not seem crazy, of course proving the exact opposite.

Then, I got married. To a man. Something changed. By “something," I mean everything. While I was thrilled when I realized that my sweet husband could fit all of his worldly possessions into the trunk of a Honda Civic, I had not anticipated how time consuming it would be to find just the right place in our décor for a Smithsonian-worthy collection of Star Wars action figures and 28 pit-stained rock band t-shirts. Luckily, he found my compulsive habits (mostly) amusing. I eased up a little. I replaced the rugs with new, fringe-less ones. He started hanging his damp towels back on the rod. We were in love. We worked it out.

Then, we had a baby boy. These baby types require a good amount of gear. By “good amount,” I mean our living room suddenly took on the appearance of a cyclone ravaged Toys R Us. Over time, I adapted to living in a baby blue landfill. I developed new coping systems involving daily schedules and baby wipes that we purchased by the palette. I eased up some more. I stopped re-caulking the bathtub every month. My spice cabinet fell out of alphabetical order. I was mostly all right with that. The baby had dimples and a throaty laugh. My label maker sat unused in the drawer.

Then, our little guy started potty training. By “potty training,” I mean he did a free fall with his business whenever the need arose. We played games called “Please Tell Me That’s Just Chocolate In Your Hair,” and “No, I Mean It, Where Is That Smell Coming From?” My china bowls filled with potpourri were replaced by economy-sized bottles of industrial disinfectant. Our little man was growing up and we got to help. I stopped moving the heavy furniture every time I vacuumed.

I have traded in the loneliness of pristine linoleum for a home with signs of life and a bottomless sink of dirty dishes. I am happy about it. By “happy,” I mean really, really happy.

Smacksy Sunday Link: PS 22 Fiona's Song

You may already be familiar with the phenomenon of the P.S. 22 5th Grade Children's Chorus in Graniteville, Staten Island. Their covers of Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" and Lady Gaga's "Just Dance" are only two of the many songs this fine chorus has making the rounds on the internet.

Yesterday, chorus teacher Gregg Breinberg, posted a new song written by one of the 10 year-old students in his class, Fiona. The song is called "Friendship." I love her/it/them.

Happy Sunday.

Smacksy Saturday Photo: Droid Dreaming

Bob sweetly clutching the Death Star Droid that he thinks is C-3PO

Imagine what will happen when he's actually old enough to see the movie.

I See It, Don't You?

Bob Rosenberg
The Lonely Art Museum At Night: It's Closed and Alone But Not Sad, 2010
tempera paint on paper

The Backseat

It was 101° on the cooler, Hollywood side of the hill. I was headed deep into the always 10° warmer San Fernando Valley for an attempt to interview The Rock Star Legend who had canceled on me three times already that week. The Rock Legend’s people were in the habit of waiting until a few hours after I had been sitting around with a camera crew before they would cancel.

I was driving my old Volvo sedan. The air conditioning in the car hadn’t worked in years. I drove with the windows open, hoping the white hot breeze would dry out my sweat-damp business casual get up.

My first stop in the big valley was at the veterinarian. My elderly dog Stella had been at the vet getting a tune up and was being released that afternoon. The way the scheduling worked out, if I wanted to have her back home for the evening, I would have to pick her up on the way to the interview and bring her with me to the recording studio. She was a big, friendly gal. I knew she'd be welcome.

With Stella planted in the backseat, we merged onto the 405 freeway. I immediately smelled something bad coming from behind me and chalked it up to canine farts and kept driving. Soon the sulfury-burning-hair-dead-stuff odor was overwhelming my little oven on wheels. I glanced into the backseat and saw that poor Stella had liquid-pooped up the back of the car. She then had apparently walked around in it and then sat down in it. I tried desperately to get off of the freeway but was trapped in my lane.

I could see her in the rear view mirror getting hit with another round of poops and rolling around the seat in her attempt to clean herself off. Stella panted up at me with her dog smile. My backseat and its passenger were now blanketed in excrement. I was already running late to my meeting with The Rock Legend. Gagging and laughing uncontrollably (something I tend to do at inopportune moments), I called my dear friend Karen who lived close by. Through my gasps I explained the situation. She told me to meet her in her driveway.

I pulled up and Karen met us, armed with towels and a hose. She quickly opened the rear door, took Stella by the collar and lead her out. She wiped out the backseat as best she could. Then my poop pit-crew of one, closed the car door and with a knock on the trunk yelled for me to keep going. I raced to Sun Valley and made it to the studio only a few minutes behind schedule. I sat with the camera and sound guys and waited for the interview as the crap baked into the interior of my car.

Forty minutes later the call came from The Rock Legend’s management. He would have to re-schedule. Again.

I released the crew and got directions to a nearby car wash. It was closing time but I managed to talk the guys into detailing my backseat by cleaning out my wallet and handing them the contents. I drove back to Karen’s where she met me in the driveway and presented my freshly washed dog.

This reaffirmed three things that I already knew: Karen is an amazing friend, my career in television was fun but not glamorous, and I loved that crazy dog with all my heart.

The Master Plan

"So Mama, Bossk is a bounty hunter so he's bad because he just wants money."

"Okay."

"Jabba the Hutt is bad and probably his baby too."

"Yep."

"And Darth Vader used to be good but then his family got hurt and he got angry and turned bad."

"I've heard that."

"But then later, I think all of those guys turn good for a little while."

"They do? I hadn't heard about that."

"Yeah. I think right before Christmas, they get good so that they can get stuff from Santa."

"That sounds like a good plan."

"If you're a bad guy."

"Right."

"But I'm good."

"You are."

Noise Free

When baby Bob and I did our time on the road with Jeff and his band, we outfitted Bob with some tiny-sized noise canceling headphones. We retired the headphones a few years back when, as a family, we went acoustic. (By "acoustic" I mean we stopped leaving the house after 6:00pm and the only concerts we attend with Bob are in our living room.)

The headphones have been enjoying a second life in the past few weeks as Bob has decided, unprompted, to wear them while he plays the drums. I would now like a pair too and perhaps should offer to get them for our neighbors.

Friday morning I was calling out to Bob who was in his room, "Hurry up, honey, we're running late. Did you brush your teeth? Bob? Where is your other sneaker? Do you have it in there? Are you done with your bagel? May I give the rest to Daisy? Bob? What are you doing? We've got to go. We're late. Let's get that other shoe on. Are you ready?"

Bob emerged from his room wearing the noise canceling headphones. He lifted them off of his ears and said, "Mama, I just can't listen to you anymore," and turned and walked back into his room.

Darth Vader’s Birthday

Bob informed us that today is Darth Vader’s birthday. If you are planning on celebrating Mr. Vader’s birthday, you may benefit from the following celebration time-line that we used.

1. Leave your child unattended in the kitchen for several minutes and do not return until the silence takes on an eerie quality.

2. Discover that child has emptied contents of 5lb flour canister on kitchen floor while assembling “Darth Vader’s birthday cake.”


3. Admire cake. (Mound of flour on plate with candles inserted.)


4. Witness child’s Darth Vader Birthday Dance and resulting flour trail of family footprints through dining room into child’s bedroom.


5. See dog run through house with leash attached to collar. Dog uses leash as flour spreading instrument.

6. Discourage child from cleaning up using toy vacuum to spread flour into TV area. Child insists on “helping.”


7. Abandon cleaning when child announces that he can, “hear the worms screaming for help” in the big rain puddle outside.

8. Help rescue worms and slugs by placing them gently on the lawn.

9. Return to house and quickly realize that your wheat gluten allergy includes not merely ingesting but also inhaling flour. Resulting allergic reaction will last no more than 40 minutes.

10. Learn lesson in chemistry when premature use of mop/water combines with residual flour to create "floor paste."

11. Make a birthday wish that Yoda’s birthday be celebrated without cake. Spread rumor that Yoda likes ice cream only.

Smacksy Sunday Link: The French Skinny Experiment

My dear pal KP has a friend who moved to Paris last year. Her friend was 65 pounds overweight and was done with fighting the scale. After six months in France, eating whatever she wanted (brie, wine, baguettes) and living the French lifestyle (high heels, metro, hot French boyfriend) this friend lost all the extra weight and then some, without trying.

KP is a stay-at-home mom who lives in Burbank, California. She is tired of running half-marathons and downing protein shakes just for the treat of having to roll on a Spanx to get into her jeans. She has decided to try it the French way. Her Parisienne friend, who goes by the online moniker "Shaboom," is writing down everything she eats and all her physical activity for the next six months (Allo, hot French boyfriend!) so that KP can copy her every move.
KP is going to get French Skinny.

They are blogging leur voyage on The French Skinny Experiment.
The whole deal is just super excellent.
Vive les carbs!

The Funny Not Slutty Big Blog Book Vol 1

Dear Favorites,

I have a piece in the delightful new Funny Not Slutty Big Blog Book Volume 1. This free and funny and free e-book of funny essays is a free download and is packed with lots of free humorous goodness. It is also free.

My bloggy gal pals Ann, DG, and Anna are in there too along with some other funny ladies that I'm becoming acquainted with.

The magical thing is that this book is actually free. So download and enjoy the hilarity, gratis.

You are having a great hair day, by the way.

Love,
Me

Night, Night

"Good night, Poops." I leaned down and kissed Bob on the forehead. He sat up suddenly and squinted at me.

“What is that on your face?” he said as he poked at a spot next to my lip.

“That’s called a blemish.”

“A blemish? Did you have the blemish when you were born? Like your beauty mark? Did you have a baby blemish and now it sits there on your face all the time? Was it there before? Where did it come from?”

“No I didn’t have it when I was born. It’s new and it won’t be there for long, I hope.”

“The blemish is red.”

“It is. Now it’s time to close your eyes.”

Bob continued to poke at my face. “Is it like a scab? What’s inside of it? Is it blood? Are there germs in there? When will it go away? Is it hurting you?”

“It doesn’t really hurt but your poking sort of does.”

“Sorry Mama. I will just pet it, not poke it.”

“No that’s, okay. No petting. It’s sleepy time so close your eyes.”

“If I close my eyes, I won’t be able to see my dreams.”

“You can only see your dreams with your eyes closed.”

“Oh… So can I rub your blemish?”

“No thanks, honey. It’s really time to go to sleep.”

“It’s a beautiful blemish. I love it because it is beautiful.”

“I love you, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”

“Good night. I will hold my eyes closed now.” With just one eye open Bob reached up and gently patted the spot on my face. "Good night."

Parting Words

Gram in 1948

In the summer of 1998, my funny, “pistol” of a grandmother, Gram Melva, got a cough. It rattled in her chest and she described it as feeling like something was “broken inside.” Two weeks later, she was diagnosed with cancer. When she heard her diagnosis, she was angry about her lifelong smoking habit. She wasn’t angry that she had ever started, she was angry that she had bothered to quit four years before. She missed her “smoky friends.” Within a month she was in intensive care.

The week Gram went into the hospital, was the same week that my first marriage was ending. I sat with Gram in the ICU and told her about the break up. We had divided our possessions. We were moving out of the house and I had found my own apartment. Gram listened and nodded. Soon she would be fitted with a tube that would help her breathe but would not allow her to speak.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me close. She was still able to talk but not above a whisper. I realized that this would likely be our last conversation, what she said next, would be her final words to me. I expected her to tell me that I would be okay, or that she was proud of me, or that she loved me. Instead, Gram said, “Get the china.” From my Gram, this was a perfect, funny, parting shot. She died a few days later.

I shared the story of her final words with my soon-to-be ex. He knew Gram well and he listened and laughed in the right places. Two days later, I returned home from work and sitting on the doorstep of my new apartment was his half of the dishes, carefully wrapped in newspaper and packed inside a large moving box.

I got the china. I miss her every day.

Ocho Is Apparently No Longer His Favorite Word

Zuckuss is on the right

Jeff is sitting on the edge of Bob's bed at bedtime.

"Daddy, you're going to fall me asleep?"

“Yes, Bob. Lay down and close your eyes.”


“Zuckus. Zuckuss. Darth Vader and Zuckussssss.”


“Sleepy time.”


“Zuckussss. Zuckuss with a Z-Z-Z-Z.”


“Close your eyes.”


“Z-O-O… O-O-O…K-K-K-K…O-O-O… S. Zuckuss.”


“Close your eyes, Bob.”


“He’s a bounty hunter, he's greedy and he works for Darth Vader and Jabba the Hutt.”


“It's a school night, Buddy.”


“We need more Zuckesses. Can we have more Zuckusses on this day? Is Zuckuss an alien?”


“Bob?”


“Zuckuss the Hutt! Daddy! I can't sleep Daddy, where's Mama?”


“Shhh.”

“Mama! Come over to the dark side!”

Star Wars: Nutritional Guidelines

“I need to teach Luke and the Skywalker family about healthy food. I will also teach Jabba the Hutt about good things to eat. Good things are things that are good like pancakes and eggs, healthy eggs, and string cheese, and pizza, and macaroni and cheese and cheese. Darth Vader likes fruit juice and lemonade with half water in it so it’s not too sweet. Chewbacca and Greedo need healthy drinks and food too like grapes and some cheese. Maybe we should make it in one place and take them all to Drinks and Food School and I will teach them. C-3PO and R2D2 don’t have food because they are very usual machines. Darth Vader needs help. He will need snacks. Darth Vader can’t feed himself anymore because of all the evil. So, Mama?”

“Yes, Bob?”

“Is my food inside my body turning into poop right now?”

“Yes.”

"That's good."

Parts

Bob and I are in the drive-thru line at In-N-Out Burger. Again.

“Bob, you want your usual?”

“Number two: Cheeseburger, plain cut in half, fries and a milk.”

“Got it.”

“Daddy said he was allergic to milk when he was a little boy.”

“That’s true.”

“But now he is not.”

“Right.”

“Were you a little girl when daddy was a little boy?”

“Sort of. I am older than daddy so I was an older girl when daddy was very little.”

“Where was I when you and daddy were little? Was I a little baby?”

“You weren’t born yet.”

“Where was I?”

“You were God’s new best idea, but he hadn’t made you yet.”

“So my parts weren’t put together then?”

“No not yet.”

“After my parts were put together, did I say thank you to God?”

“Maybe. I know I said thank you when your parts were put together. I still say thank you everyday.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“French fries are my favorite vegetable.”

“Me too.”