when I started this blog five years ago, I was a pet sitter and the name animal-crackers made sense. now I'm a stay-at-home-dad and freelance writer, but rather than confuse everyone by getting a different blog, it's just easier to keep posting things here.

Dylan had his six-month review with the therapists from Easter Seals. He was such a show off. He sat up without any assistance for two or three minutes.

But he looked positively foul. It must be the concentration needed to balance his growing head.

Before today he couldn't sit up for more than 30 seconds before tipping over.

The evaluation is mostly about setting six-month goals. And it involves questions that even the therapists acknowledge are dumb.

"You want Dylan to be able to handle a spoon. How long will he have handled a spoon before you think he has mastered it?"

"What?"

"Would he need to have handled a spoon for two or three weeks before you think he has mastered it?"

I don't know. Maybe the Master of Spoons cannot be attained until the child has trapped a leaping grasshopper with said utensil.

The therapists seem to understand some of their questions are retarded, but they must be asked to fulfill federal guidelines.

After the therapists left, Josh helped me decorate Dylan's new race-car swing. He did an excellent job chosing and placing the stickers (pictures to follow). Then, after we hung the swing on the swing set, Josh pitched a fit because I wouldn't let him climb in. Sigh.

UPS stopped by with two packages. The first was our new camera, which does not require us to read Portuguese. The second was a birthday present for Dylan from my parents. A swing.

Put them together and you get this:

There was a story online this morning about a body that was found in the city park at the end of our street. The park that is just 200 yards from our front door.

Police are investgating it as a nonsuspicious death. Because there's nothing suspicious about a body in the park.

*** update ***

It turns out somebody went to the park and shot himself in the head.

Now I'm not one to demean or diminish the mentally ill, but that's fucked up. How selfish do you have to be to go to a public place frequented by children and next to an elementary school and shoot yourself in the head?

You know what really freakin rocks? I'm writing this on a new laptop, in the living room.

Our previous notebook computer was about 10 years old. I had bought it used from work some six years ago. Now, the battery is shot, the CD-ROM is broke and it still runs Win95.

So we figured it was time to give it a well-deserved retirement. Besides, Andrea is going to need a laptop when she travels to Atlanta next month or when she's working long hours at the hospital on her Carter story.

Josh has been pretty good about it. Of course he wants to constantly touch it and play with the mouse pad. But so far he has not tried to step on it, throw it, eat it or otherwise abuse it.

Speaking of Josh, we need to figure out what to do with him now that summer camp is over. He's become accustomed to the high-energy activities and generally high level of chaos. I can't keep up with him any more.

And Dylan's birthday is coming up soon. Nothing big planned, actually. Just a couple of friends over for a cupcake, maybe an ice cream sandwich.

"Dad, I wanna go to McDonald's."

"But we just went to McDonald's yesterday."

"But I wanna Happy Meal toy."

"Josh, McDonald's is a restaurant. They sell food there, not toys."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it's not a toy store."

"Are we talking about the same place?"

***

"OK, Josh. You need to eat. What do you want?"

"I dunno."

"Since you're watching Finding Nemo how about some fish sticks?"

"Yay!"

Josh woke up screaming a little after 11 last night. He was inconsolable and when I tried to hug him and said: "No don't make me."

That would probably be less upsetting if Josh hadn't come home from school yesterday with a black eye. (More on that later.)

Andrea eventually calmed him down and he slept through the night.

This morning he mentioned that he hadn't slept well.

"I had bad dreams."

"What did you dream about," I asked.

"I dreamed about monsters and I didn't have any monster spray."

"And what were the monsters doing?"

"They were taking my toys," Josh said.

"Were they trying to make you do stuff?"

"Yes, they were trying to make me do their chores," he said.

Our pediatrician's office is sort of strange. Since Dylan was born so early and spent so much time in the hospital, the doctor likes to have him in every four to six weeks. But no one else in the office seems to get this.

Typical call:

Me: Hi, I'd like to make an appointment for Dylan to see the doctor.

Receptionist: Is this for an illness or a wellness check-up.

Me: Uh, a wellness check-up, I guess. The doctor said he wanted to see Dylan in six weeks.

Receptionist: Does he need to get a shot?

Me: No.

Receptionist: Then he's sick.

Me: Wait, no. What?


After some convincing, we're allowed to enter the wonderfully architectured halls of medicine. And then we have to go through it all again with the nurse.

"He's not here for a shot and he's not sick? Why are you here?"

Damn good question I suppose.

None of this is terribly interesting. However, I could have simply written: Doctor saw Dylan today. He weighs 17 pounds 2 ounces and the doctor was pleased to hear him babble like a 9-month-old.

If I had written that, you (all two of you) would have felt cheated.