This turned out to be an amazingly effective trick, and he did great when his time came to shine. We forgot to practice climbing up on the scale and standing still, though, so we only know that he weighs somewhere between 27 and 29 lbs. He was too wriggly to get more specific. We also forgot to practice that part where he lies down and they mark the paper at his head and feet to see how tall he is. That went completely awry and required all hands to hold him down.

My main concern was his hearing, which I’ve been fretting over ever since an assessment at Amos’ daycare revealed his speech is a bit delayed and there are concerns that all the ear infections he’s had are the cause.

As usual, the fantastic Dr. Ledbetter was completely pragmatic about these concerns and put me at ease. Amos wouldn’t stop saying, “Hi, doctor! Hi, doctor! Aah!” which Dr. Ledbetter said was proof enough that he’s a social little boy who can certainly express himself. Amos got really excited about the elephant sticker he won for being so good, and repeated “Eff-in! Eff-in” over and over. I seized on the opportunity to show Dr. Ledbetter what I was worried about. “See, this is typical. He doesn’t say ‘elephant’ right.” Dr. Ledbetter was very patient. “No 2-year-old says ‘elephant’ right.”

We were hoping for no shots on this visit, but there was one. We hadn’t practiced at all. We tried a frantic, last-minute dress rehearsal while the nurse stepped out to prepare the syringe. It didn’t help that much.

Awesomely, Sarah’s mom who lives in Jonesboro and was totally not on the hook for this in any way, took the lead. She’s just amazingly nice like that. So a few weekends ago she and Sarah stormed the Jonesboro Sams Club, making off with a cart full of rice crispy treat ingredients and enough saran wrap for a Christo installation. They spent their Saturday preparing 60 giant crispy treats for sale. On Sunday Sarah brought the goodies back to LR, all packed to go to the office the next day where we would nestle them into cute little baskets and set them out in the break areas with donation jars.

Then it snowed. Remember that? For three days Sarah and I fretted about the rice crispy treats that languished in their plastic shrouds, growing stale and gummy. Sarah conducted a.m. and p.m. freshness checks, sacrificing her own figure and oral health to make sure our wares were still worth the $2 each we planned to ask. The office opened up again Thursday, we adopted a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy about just how fresh-baked our baked goods were, and the first round of operation bake sale was a success.

The next weekend I pulled out my mom’s Junior League cookbook, a 1976 version from Asheville, N.C., that included a recipe for “The World’s Richest Brownies.”

elegance, y'all

The recipe was contributed by Beverly Maury Bagley. Never heard of her? Maybe Mrs. C.S. Bagley rings a bell. That’s how real ladies used to roll back in the day.

is this copyright infringement?

Mrs. R.S. Bailey was all about some brownies that come with a warning to cut squares small, a warning that I fully intended to ignore. But then I started in on my double batch. First, the butter:

Are you drunk? No, you are not. Four sticks of butter. Really, four.

Then eight squares of chocolate, then a mountain of sugar. Five cups.

Too much?

The finished product:

doesn't look too bad

Honestly, the brownies weren’t that great Sunday. And Monday they weren’t amazing. But by Tuesday they were freaking fabulous and those baskets in the break rooms emptied out. I can’t explain the magic. All I know is that operation bake sale was a mad success.

digging in

These little peanuts kept Amos busy for minutes and minutes, giving me hope that all those commercials we let him watch on TV haven’t obliterated his attention span after all. He was very happy.

hurrah!

Wheee!

But then I noticed that the 5 million styrofoam peanuts were getting crushed underfoot into millions more pieces, morphing into tiny, solid hunks of static electricity. Suddenly they were climbing up the walls, stuck to the refrigerator door, colonizing the ceiling. Amos volunteered to help with cleanup.

this isn't working

Once it was determined that the kitchen fit the definition of a superfund site I sent Amos away to play trains so I could sweep. It took that, plus a round of swiffering and a thorough vacuuming to clear the debris. Lesson learned, but it was lots of fun.

But I promise with all my heart, no more peanut butter unless it’s a tissue-thin layer mixed with a soggy glob of slippery jam. Peanuts, M&Ms, hot dogs=no, no, no. Not at all. None. I know it’s really good to know this stuff and it was a true public service for Heidi to provide the paralyzing statistics behind the conventional wisdom, but it got the nerves jangling overtime. Amos was having chicken nuggets for lunch. Oh my god chicken nuggets! I will likely put all his entrees in the blender first until I can calm down a bit.

“My boys kept me up last night,” he said. Oh, I thought, so it IS the same look I see most days in the mirror. He must have young sons.

“How old are your boys?”

“Well, I’m 50. Ted’s 48, Bill’s—“

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I thought you meant you had little boys who kept you up.”

It was an awkward introduction for me and the party time window guy, but Amos was far more graceful. He doesn’t take quickly to everyone, but occasionally he falls in love at first sight. Such was the case here.

“Hi, man! Hi, man!” Amos shouted this nonstop while Mr. E circled the house, inspecting the windows and taking measurements. Amos followed him from inside, popping up at each window like a groundhog to greet him. “Hi, man!”

When Mr. E came inside, Amos snatched up his dad’s tape measure and fell in step, going behind Mr. E to make sure his window measurements were correct. Mr. E was clearly struggling, but I think Amos’ energy helped him. So much so, in fact, that Mr. E eventually serenaded Amos with a slow but heartfelt rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching in.”

Those two seemed perfectly content together so I stayed about seven paces behind, disguising my laughing with fake coughing fits and willing my weakened pelvic floor muscles to hold up so I wouldn’t wet my pants.

This isn’t Amos’ very first love. That honor goes to Uncle Jerry, a Korean War vet with the forearm tattoos to prove it. Jerry is the only member of my husband’s mainly teetotaler family with the balls to order a beer when we all meet up at the Olive Garden. When Amos’  grandparents took him by Jerry’s house a few weeks ago, Amos crawled into Jerry’s lap and the two reclined in a Lazyboy together to watch football. It was the only time in his life that Amos has been still when he wasn’t sleeping.

Surely it’s too early to label Amos as “a man’s man,” or to assume that because he’s attracted to these laid back characters he will also be a cool customer. It might just be that Mr. E is a real-life Bob the Builder, and Uncle Jerry looks like he has coloring books printed on his skin. Still, it’s so sweet for his mama to get to watch Amos get excited about these first crushes, as odd as they might be.