Return to Great America!

Two years ago, at the age of three, I embarked with my dad on our first adventure to Great America.  

Off to Great America! (Me, Age 3)

Off to Great America!  (Me, Age 5)

This year, it was finally Rowan's turn to participate in the annual mecca. 

Off to Great America! (Rowan: Age 3)

Although I generally enjoy her company, the tape measure insisted we take separate trips, as her short stature would prevent us from partaking of the types of rides that seriously make my mom question my dad's judgment.

Like this one.  (Thank you, kind ride operator, for this footage of me and Dad getting as close to skydiving as the law with allow.)

And for those of you asking yourself whether they really allow a 5-year-old to do that sort of thing, I'd insist that the real question is whether they allow a 5-year-old to do that sort of thing twice. 

And the answer is yes.  Yes, they do.

Although Rowan is wired with significantly more awareness of/respect for the mortality of man, she still managed to enjoy The Whizzer and Logger's Run.  Not to mention all the celebrity sightings!

 

 

And while she pretended to be indifferent to her lack of involvement in the festivities, I think Remy was secretly VERY excited about her big score in the souvenir department. 

 

 

 

Only three more years, my tiny superhero friend, and the adventure shall be yours, too!

 

Only my dad would recognize the 9th runner up of the season before last season of American Idol!

Drawing up a proposal

Since my mom works from home, I catch useful nuggets here and there about talking to clients and writing important documents as I'm going about my business of disorganizing the house.  One thing I have learned is that it can be very helpful to make a little show with lots of pictures to help convince people to do things the way you think they should be done.

This skill served me well this morning when Mary asked me what we should do on our special day together while Daddy and Rowan are at Great America.  Because PowerPoint's a little too technical for me, I did my presentation the old-fashioned way -- with paper, markers and stick-on gems.

As you can see, I proposed a trip our local mall's premium play area (you know if there's a cover to get in, it's a good time!), lunch at "The Rainforest" and a trip to the arts and crafts store.  I carefully walked Mary through the program and she accepted!

It's too bad ponies are so darn hard to draw.

She'd like off this sleep train

This week, Remy turned 5 months old.

When she was first born, the doctor commented that she had a "healthy set of lungs." She has a signature cry that doubles as a scream and is capable of breaking your heart clean in half.

When she first came to live at our house, we heard that cry a LOT.  She cared not for diaper changes or outfit changes.  Baths were equally low on her list.  And all those long, screamy trips in the car where we assumed she'd eventually tire out and fall asleep?  Nope, she cried straight through those, too.

But somewhere along the line, when nobody was looking, they swapped our baby for an easier-going model.  It's as if lately, life in the baby business is so good that she just can't be bothered to cry.  And so it's pretty obvious that if she spent 6 hours and 45 minutes of logged time exercising those healthy lungs this week, it could only be one thing:

SLEEP TRAINING.

Much like Rowan, Remy seems to be naturally endowed with a keen sense of drama.  And so unlike me, who emphatically declared my disdain for sleep training on Night One, mildly protested on Night Two and was like, "Yeah, fine, whatever" on Night Three, Remy's vying for the Oscar nod nightly.  So much so that my mom, who drinks adult drinks very sparingly, had to fish through the fridge to find the least expired bottle of "adult pop" in order to endure the heartache.

You should know, Remy, that Mom did try to spare you the emotional trauma of learning to put yourself to sleep by reading one of those books that pushes more humane methods (e.g., not based on screaming one's head off).  But it turns out that conducting a nightly 15-minute bedtime routine in a dimly lit room and keeping detailed nap and bedtime journals tracking everything from the direction of the wind to the color of your socks just wasn't in the cards for you, my unfortunate third-baby friend.

Plus, the doctor told Mom to do it.  Practically insisted!

And, hence, the story of how you learned to go down.  Fighting!  After a week, though, you seem to be suggesting that you're coming around.

Sweet dreams, my sleep-trained friend. 

Remy: My pouty lip will never forgive you!

Familiar Faces

Since she was born, almost everyone Remy meets wants to know the same thing: Who does she look like?

Most people thinks that she looks like Rowan.  Daddy insists she looks like me.  But I declare she looks like C. None of the Above.

I think she looks like this guy:

Daddy (1973)

Remy (yesterday)