The Elliott has shown himself to be quite gregarious and charming.  The ladies, they love him.  

Mostly he plays the aloof card.  This one girl totally macked on him at Folklife Festival this weekend, and he was all like, whatever.  She was so enamored with him that she clung to his stroller for about 200 feet, like some pre-limo Beatles groupie.

I'm not saying that it's all one-way.  Seen here with the delightful Iris, there was definitely some give and take.  But she was pretty forward with him.  Megan, Iris' Mom, is now instructing Patrick, Iris' Dad, that we are never to speak to them again.

I'm just glad we've got a few years before this stops being cute and starts making me incredibly anxious.  I can remember visiting friends of my parent's on the East Coast when I was 15, and not understanding why I couldn't sleep alone in the same room with their 15 year-old-daughter.  The sad thing is, at the time, I really had no clue what they were worried about.  All I remember is that they were REALLY adamant that a sleepover not occur.  It makes much more sense now.

So here's to a clueless Elliott!  Long may ignorance reign.

 

The Elliott has been contained in his tadpole suit nightly since he got too big for swaddling blankets.  This transition occurred inside a month, since he was never really swaddle-size to begin with.    

Last week, Ecuador invaded Portland, and while they held the city, they insisted that the weather be the worst kind of tropical hot and MUGGY.  As a result, we finally  metamorphosed the boy from tadpole to full-fledged frog.  

His first night out of the pond resulted in this.

Oh, to sleep like that again.

 

This is a somewhat older picture, but Sarah and I are scrambling around trying to get ready for Memorial Day Weekend, and I didn't want to leave everybody hanging like last week.  

Right now, Sarah is attempting to put the Elliott down for the night, and by all rights the Elliott should REALLY want to go down because he missed an hour and a half of sleep last night, and decided he only needed a one hour nap today.  

But instead he's uncharacteristically crabby, and since we have practically no experience with a fussy baby, I'm hiding in the basement while Sarah steels herself for some Ferberization.  For those of you unfamiliar with the teachings of Ferber, he's decided it's OK to let your child scream themselves to sleep as long as you check on them every fifteen minutes.  I am not a Ferberite.  However, I am an excellent passer of the buck, so Sarah gets to try her hand at giving the Elliott a solid Ferbering.

This just in, Elliott whined for about 4 seconds and is now completely out.  Whew.  We made it.

We are so in trouble if we have a real baby next time around.

 

My father, #1 Vice Commodore of the Quartermaster Yacht Club (of the Elliott), is a true boater.  He spends a lot of time on The Boat.  He goes on amazing journeys on The Boat.  For example: In just a few weeks, he and Mom are going to spend two months circumnavigating Vancouver Island on The Boat.  

Real boaters circumnavigate things.

My Dad (and Mom) have weathered real ocean storms while crossing the Pacific from Hawaii to Seattle.  

Real boaters weather storms with panache.

I have tried all my life to be a good boater.  I enjoy boating, especially if it involves loafing, eating and drinking.  I'm a decent first mate, and I can spout the jargon and shiver timbers in a pinch, but I'm not really a true boater.  I have no storm panache, and I lack the fanatical drive of the true boater.  I don't tithe enough to Boat U.S. and I recently sold the last vestige of my father's hope that I would be a true boater, a 26' Columbia sailboat that I had inherited when Dad "upgraded" to a Tartan '37.

All this back story leads up to my father's fondest wish potentially coming true.  The Elliott appears to have the makings of a true boater. He likes The Boat.  He may even love The Boat.  Perhaps even in an unhealthy, unsanitary way.

It gives me great pleasure to see my son not shying away from new things.  He's no shrinking violet, and I get the feeling in a few years he'll be doing lots of things that will test the limits of my innate over-protectiveness.  Despite the potential for my developing severe arrhythmia, I sincerely hope one of those things is learning to be a true boater with my Dad.

Whoa!   Where'd all this smarm come from?  It's not Father's Day yet!  Here!  Distract yourself with this picture of the Elliott doing his impression of the 1968 Olympics.

 

 

My coffee mug distributor delivered Chris, #1 French Philosopher of the Elliott, his fabulous prize from last week's caption contest.  As you can see, sometimes I even surprise myself.  

To CafePress.com's credit, within an hour of my curt letter of grumpiness, they had what we hope will be the correct mug in the mail 2nd Day Air, and as a bonus they're letting him keep this snazzy mug too!  Who knew that one little caption contest could yield such a plethora of booty?  It's like a prize within a prize.  Like biting into a chocolate donut and discovering unexpected cream filling.  Like getting within $100 on the Price is Right and winning BOTH showcases!  It's like a bank error in my favor!  It's like a party in my mouth!  

OK, it's not like that.  

It seems only fair that I officially make the Shiloh Horse Rescue and Sanctuary the #1 Place of Peace for Horses to Mend of the Elliott.

  

 

No time to talk.  Let me distract you with a pretty slideshow.  

I wish I could say these were mine, but they're actually Soren Coughlin-Glaser's, #1 Professional Photographer of the Elliott.  Enjoy!

P.S. I am not a preacher, and Elliott's middle name is not Ray, it is in fact Elliott.

 

Did I mention that two days ago the Elliott moved into his 9th month?  Let's just say, fourth quarter growth looks strong.  We managed to make it three months with only one doctor's visit and he's still proving a serious overachiever in the cell-replication department.  No chart can hold this boy, especially his melon.  It's a good thing his whole body is in the high 90's because otherwise, he'd kind of look like a puppet made out of a swizzle stick and an olive.  With red hair.

As amazing as the outside is, it's the inside that's regularly freaking me out.  We've discussed my chewing issues (see 02-22-05), and since I gave up pen chewing in honor of bifocal vision, I've substituted it with the Elliott himself.  His tummy is particularly enticing.  He likes it.  Really!  Anyway, the other day I was sitting with him on my lap, and suddenly he leaned forward, out of the blue, and started trying to chew on my tummy.  

Now I'm used to Airedale terriers, a breed of giant hamster, that you have to diligently train, over and over, to perform the simplest of tasks.  I am definitely not used to children that, it turns out, take very little instruction to permanently ruin.  Since he's busily growing razors in his mouth (all four top front incisors are racing to see who can be longest and deadliest first), I am eagerly awaiting the call from Fruit & Flower informing us Gargantua has playfully disemboweled one of the other kids.  And to avoid lending credence to future lawsuits, let me stress that the previous sentence was actually sarcasm.  

Still and all, that sudden moment of unbidden toothy mimicry fills me with this crazy giddiness.  It's probably something akin to Dr. Frankenstein's emotions the night the monster woke up....  

Oh.  

Note to self:  No more biting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is what happens when you let the boy eat peas all by himself.  George Romero would be proud.

 

Sarah has made no secret that I have been moved into second place.  I bear no grudges.  How could you try to get between this?  

Anyway, since I was sick Friday (and those days embracing it), I thought I'd go back and replace that rotten evening with some false memories.  So today is Friday!  Say it with me!  And Friday means letters!!

My sainted Mother writes:

Why didn’t you pick my caption?

Because that would be nepotism.  Or Oedipism?  Either way, it would be wrong, and you raised me better than that!   Besides, you got your own entry yesterday.  I mean two days from now.  

Bruce, #1 fan of the Elliott, writes:

Dear Sirs,

Your most current contest appears to have been rigged, if not down right slanderous in its conclusion.  The winning “caption” was not really a caption at all; rather more appropriately labeled a headline.  Being a participant in aforementioned contest, but having absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I lost, I submit my formal declaration of BOGUS!  A caption, within context of this contest, implied an inward thought of Elliott.  Certainly you would agree that the winning statement should more appropriately be labeled a title, if you will, and not necessarily a thought or idea expressed by the subject.  I demand, respectfully of course, a recount, for this kind of treachery serves only to alienate future and valid attempts in Elliott contests.

A well presented, thoughtful letter indeed, Bruce.  But as I pointed out before, the Elliott found your entry (which simultaneously referenced underwater flatulence and the contest's ONLY JUDGE) to be prurient and juvenile in nature.  Also, he regularly thinks about himself in the third person while wearing finery in the bathtub.  Cheer up.  You'll always be his #1 fan, and no AWESOME FREE TBE COFFEE MUG can ever change that.

That's right.  After much soul searching, Chris, #1 French Philosopher of the Elliott, opted not to go with the hardcore, tattoo sporting, sleeveless t-shirt, and went instead for the rockin' coffee mug which will be shipped to him as soon as he remembers to send me his address in the Ivory Tower.   

Ok, I think I've logged enough time to wipe out the fever dream that was Friday, and unlike a real Friday, I have to work tomorrow.  Tune in next time, when we'll reveal that the Elliott is actually a brain-eating zombie.  How's that for a cliff hanger?

 

 

As you can see here, I'm not particularly normal.  So my wonderful Mother deserves that much more thanks than your average Mom.  I gave her some tough years and we both survived.  Believe me, over the last nine months I've begun to appreciate her in ways I don't think I'd ever have been able to before.  

In short, Mom, I love you.  You've earned your just rewards: a mini-me that you get to spoil and play with, then send packing the moment he starts lying, or skipping school, or joining the Navy, or dating scary girls.  It's all fun from here!

Much love and thanks yet again!

Your son,

Dave 

 

 

 

 

I have the flu.  I'll be back up and running soon. 

 

 

 

 

...and then the Elliott learned about despair.  

All is not lost, however.  Last night, he managed to lift his belly off the floor without immediately sliding backwards under a couch.  I've made sure to clap furiously every time I see daylight beneath his bellybutton.  It's brief clapping; I can fit in about 3 regular claps or 5 opera claps, although not even one "excellent speech, you villain, but I've seen through your false sincerity" ironic movie clap.  Anyway, I think it's helping.

Now, about that silly contest thing.  I've decided it wasn't really a good idea so I'm canceling it.  Is that wrong? 

Of course it is.  And of course I'm lying.  In fact, I received a record number of submissions for the contest.  In a rare case of self-censoring, I rejected the two that referenced various bodily functions, mostly because the Elliott found them droll.  This still left a healthy field of contenders, and this time they came from several different people instead of just the Bruce, current caption champion and #1 fan of the Elliott!  

But in the end, one truly stood out above the rest.  Please take a moment to drum on your desk, or your knees, or the table at Starbucks, then click on the Elliott's sad little elbow to view the winner.  Admit it!  The suspense is killing you.

The author of this outstanding, inspiring caption will receive a fabulous prize, which I'll reveal with my usual melodrama once we have determined if said prize will be truly cherished by the recipient.  What I mean is that there's still a somewhat amorphous quality to the prize right at this particular moment.  We'll keep you posted.

To those of you who entered but did not win, good effort, there's always next month-ish, and remember, it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.  And in this case, it was mostly about how many times you entered.  Nothing like a good shotgun technique.  To those of you who did not enter, wait until you see just how fabulous the fabulous prize turns out to be!  It's pretty darn fabulous.  You could have owned it, but you didn't enter!  You will be so very saddened. 

 

Welcome to May, fair Elliottites.  

As you can see, the sidebar has developed another colorful tumor.  Click it and all of April will spew forth, like so much ichor from a pus-filled boil.  Eww. That's fairly gross.

You might also notice that the layout has evolved.  Thanks much to Rebecca for the advice and free HTML.  She made a sample layout for me the other day and I stole it in universitas.  She should have expected no less.  I hope you like TBE 2.0.

Now, about this picture.  We have a lot of toys for the boy.  Observe the very nifty, high-tech learning station our friends Sarita and Bhupesh gave us in the background.  Notice how this wonder of modern technology lies completely neglected in favor of the slightly less modern, yet completely engrossing pad of college rule paper.  This most wondrous toy occupied him for a full half an hour, during which nothing else existed to him.  The house could have collapsed around him and he would nary have batted an eye. 

I just don't think I can describe to you properly how awesome the Elliott found this new plaything.  They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so here's 28,000 words to help illustrate.  

P.S.  We have several submissions for April 28th's caption contest, so there will be a winner!  Since I've spent all my blogging time on the update and the slideshow, you now have until 5 p.m. Tuesday to submit your entry.  Click on the "Dave" e-mail link and enter something!  Anything.  Don't make me beg!  Please?