If you’re expecting something porny based on the title, you”ll be sorely disappointed. But I hear My Little Redhead Midget Part 2 is pretty good if you’re into that sort of thing.

I can cook.

I mean cook. This never ceases to amaze me, because in my head I’m still the teenager who could barely boil water, the neophyte whose mother brought the turkey the first few times I hosted Thanksgiving. Trial and error, a discerning eye for recipes I like, a few tried and tested techniques. I can cook.

Hauling out the slow cooker and the stock pot more often since Christmas, I’ve reflected on these simple acts: choosing a recipe, shopping, putting chef’s knife to shallot, sauteing, roasting, broiling. Nourishing my family.

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(also known as filler while thoughts percolate)

There are few things that amuse me more than assigning random tags to my posts. Accordingly, it comes as no surprise that the following search terms have all yielded at least one visit to the wingdangdoo over the past six months:

• my little midget redhead part 2 (what concerns me the most is the implication of not only a part 1 but possibly parts 3 and 4. Well, actually, I take it back. What really concerns me is the likelihood that my little midget redhead is porn.)
• fishing symbol fish with hook dangling (oh noes!)
• the falcon cannot hear the falconer (I’m sorry. You came here looking for poetry, and all you got was a trip to the AMNH with a surly 42 year old) (also, Yeats? I’m sorry. You can stop spinning in your grave now.)
• what did the 4th circle of hell look like? (In all honesty? This search term? Leading to the wingdangdoo? I’m just… honored.)
• girlfriend sexy (I’m bringing sexy back, yo.)
• stamford board of education meeting for my son (boy have you come to the right place! Pull up a chair and let’s have a chat!)
• firebush (hee! cracks me up every time.)
• brown hair with chunky red highlights (Listen. This is a repeat search term. Yes you will find a relevant post about my adventures with hair color, but proceed at your own risk. You’ve been warned. )

I got so lucky with the header picture.

Yes, I’ve posted this picture before. I took it at South Beach, trying to capture my boys in silhouette.

It’s now among my very favorite pictures, ever. Sure, Alison Shaw, you’ve got the pole position (and the second… and the third…) in my dining room. Truth be told, your prints are the first and only serious pieces of art we’ve owned.

But I’m claiming the blog header as my own.

I have so very much to say. But It’s going to have to keep for a bit while my brain attempts to make sense of the impossible. Back soon.

Did you know yesterday was stop lurking because you’re freaking me out day?

No, wait, it was called something else. National delurk day? Take lurch to lunch day? Hey you ole lunk c’mere and give me a hug day?

No?

Anyway, the idea is for people who typically don’t comment to stop that and say something.  In fact I’ll make a deal with you: go ahead and leave a comment, and I won’t go all Harriet the Spy and google your IP address*.

Deal?

* a hollow threat at best. There isn’t a whole lot google is going to tell me about you based on your IP address.  Still, I’d love to hear from you and maybe get an idea about why you read the wingdangdoo.

It happened.

I had to quickly run into school this morning when I dropped off the boys. The doodle girl set off the car alarm while I was talking to the principal and trying to act like a grownup, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

My oldest stopped to say goodbye to me before we entered the building and then scurried ahead, disappearing through the double doors and down the hall without me.

Because he didn’t want his friends to see him kissing his mom.

I thought about being upset was devastated while I silently cheered on my boy, finding his way through the wilds of third grade.

Later, I consoled myself with this little piece of sweetness that came home in his folder earlier in the week. Family photos, the cover said. This was the last page:

more momful pride after the jump

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You’ve always been with me.

Spending days with me and your nephews in the post September 11 lunacy. Fixing the heat in the Scooter on the way home from visiting Matthew in Maine in 1983. Telling me I was fucking up when I needed (not wanted) to hear it. Toasting my newly minted marriage as only you could.

And, Springsteen.

I am with you today, holding your hand.

I love you Robby.

enough with the serious already.

It’s ten degrees outside. Even without that hard bit of data, I knew it was damn cold as I padded across the pine kitchen floorboards this morning. Thousands of dollars on insulation and new windows later, our home remains a drafty old farmhouse. I let the dogs out into the snow and felt the arctic blast, realizing too late that the tank top and flannel pjs that felt so reasonable between memory foam and blankets were no match for this morning’s deep freeze.

I closed the folding doors to the basement and the pantry, eliminating some of the draft.  I built a fire, hoping to get the living room cozy and warm before my boys awoke to greet the new year.

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