Tonight, however, the boy wanted to get out immediately after his older sister to play with his Thomas train set some more, so I was left with just the 1-year-old.  Eager to memorialize the last moments of my time as the parent of a baby, I recorded this conversation:

Her:  Daddy!
Me:  BL (for “Baby Lola”)!

What’s odd (for me) is how much I actually enjoy spending time with B.L.  With the other two, I tolerated their pre-walking and pre-talking months so that we could get to what I figured would be the better times:  when the children could actually interact with me.  But ever since we went to Houston last year, and I found myself spending entire days alone with Lola, I’ve enjoyed my time with this little creature of few words.

The fact that she starts each morning with cries for “DADDY!!!” and closes each evening’s bath time with the same call (but at a lower volume) only pushes me further into that realm of inability to say “no” to the only member of the family who never argues with me and is always excited to see me enter the room (a description once reserved for Winnie the dog, though now she’s shifted her affections toward our eldest).  And as a result, while I see myself shoving Emilie toward vet school, Maddie toward law school or a CPA, and Owen toward mechanical engineering when their time to leave the nest arrives, I may have to feign invalidity when Lola reaches that age and coerce her into staying around a while. I’m sure she won’t mind.  Right?

Observe:

While not quite as easily decipherable as her big sister was when recorded on the phone, Lola still gets her points across.  And when the dog is commanded to lie down, its only response is a mumbled “How low?”

We have ourselves a little chatterbox!  Her language skills have exploded lately, and we’ve run a gamut of new words and phrases. At times she seems to be carrying on a conversation entirely by herself (or her little friend, Brobee).

Words thus far (in English/ in Mia):
doggie (same)
cat (at)
balloon (bahhloo)
elephant (elfant)
ball (same)
tiger (rawr)
fish (sshhhhh)
banana (nana)
milk (yeche)
water (agua)
bubble (baaabulls)
giraffe (jaaafff)
and of course… ELMO! Sigh.

During Star Trek a year ago, you created contractions.  Despite learning you weren’t as far along as we thought, we refused to return home, and your mom and I paced the wooden floors of Emory Hospital all night while testing whether gravity and grit could conveniently force your little ass out on a weekend.

You came home and took up residence in our master bedroom’s closet while we continued trying to sell our house.  Morning after morning, I illuminated your little room with the iphone “flashlight” application as I ever-so-slowly and ever-so-quietly reached around your little bassinet (and later, pack-n-play) to pick out a suit from your right, a shirt and tie from your left, and–most challenging–a pair of heavily weighted by cedar “shoe trees” dress shoes from behind your head.

I held my breath as I carefully reached across your tiny sleeping figure in the dark below and prayed I’d avoid crushing your tender skull with the stainless steel shoe horn my father-in-law gave me last Christmas.

Good news, Lola.  You’re 1 year old today, and you still have your intact skull.

Even better news:  our house is under contract.  You might actually get a real bedroom in July.

We don’t have much in the way of “outdoor toys” for the little one since she was immobile this time last year, but this post from Prudent Mama seemed ingenious.

So off we went and got some play sand from Lowe’s and a plastic storage bin from Target. Add a couple of plastic beach toys and buckets from CVS and we spent a total of just about $10 for infinite fun.

She loves the texture of the sand and picking it up and tossing it. Then I turned around for a second and found this:

Little stinker hopped right in!  Whee!  And when all is done, we just pop the lid back on and wait for another sunny day.  Can’t beat that!

You know what?  I haven’t been pissed on once!  I am winning!

Did y’all know there’s actually a product call “Pee-pee Teepees” (trademarked, by the way) to prevent getting a golden shower from your spawn?  Apparently, having little boys piss all over you when you’re changing their diapers is ALL THE RAGE these days.

When we first brought a baby boy into our home, I actually asked Pretty Bride if we needed one of these things.

She looked at me like I was an idiot.

I figured it was because she knew within a month or so we’d have to substitute a construction cone for the miniscule, destined-to-be-nothing-more-than-a-snow-cap-on-a-mountain Pee-pee Teepee (after all, he is MY son).

But, I might have been wrong.

Here’s where I’m not wrong, though:  good little boys don’t give unsolicited golden showers.  Felons do.  I worry about those of y’all who are raising the next generation of perverts who believe they can fly.

Apparently she loathes such photo ops.  CASE IN POINT:

I guess I really ought to stop trying these things with her.  My sweet baby is more likely to run up to a ferocious pit bull and gleefully say “doggy!” than deal with any costumed children’s character.  At least this keeps us from having to go to Disney any time soon!

First, finagle your way into another military-sponsored trip to a base in Hawaii.
Second, take an 8-month-old.
Third, pray said 8-month-old refrains from screaming during the 19 hours spent on airplanes.  Simple!

We left on Sunday, a few hours before the Atlanta Snowpocalypse 2011 (leaving my mother in charge of three children who were out of school all week.  Screw you, Grandma!).  Miraculously, baby Lola did not scream or cry the 10+hours we flew over, despite spending very little time napping.

Monday, I was supposed to be at work at 0730, but I arrived to an empty building.  The flight had been canceled, and no one told me.  So, we went to my favorite breakfast spot in the world:  Duke’s.  Mango juice, coffee, and a plate full of bacon, right by the ocean.  Wonderful.

Afterward, it was back to the hotel to football.  The only way a 3rd-generation Alabama graduate can watch an Auburn national championship game:

Tuesday began and ended early work-wise, but it, unfortunately, began several days of rain.

There was some shopping, some rather outstanding meals, massages for Pretty Bride and me, scenic drives, and visits to the Bishop Museum and ‘Iolani Palace.  Pictures are below the jump:

Our hotel had a shark pool.  I told Lola this is where the naughty babies learn to swim.

Between rain storms above Honolulu.

Given our country’s dearth of monarchs, this is your only shot at visiting a palace on U.S. soil.

Bishop Museum.

Sharks!

With LASERS!

My first flambe dessert experience.

After a few days at a quiet resort, we decided to change hotels, moving to Waikiki Beach instead.

Lagoon outside the first hotel in Ko Olina.

Where even the toilet covers are Heavenly!

From the balcony at our second hotel.

For our last few days on the island, I really wanted to give surfing another try, and I’ve heard the North Shore is the best place in the world to do it, so that’s where we headed.

Pretty Bride th0ught this not a great idea, given my limited (once) experience with getting up on a surfboard.  So, I asked the only person who comes close to an expert whom I know.  And his reply, via twitter:  Eddie would go!    And so, I went.

I decided I probably should not push off into these waves, given a) their enormity and b) the red flags everywhere prohibiting as much.  This is just down from the famous Bonzai Pipeline.

Instead, I opted for a 3-hour lesson just down the beach a ways, but still on the North Shore.  Unfortunately, the water was a bit brown from all the rain the preceding few days.

Got up!

Got up again!  Learned to walk the board and turn with some semblance of control.

And the chicks on the beach were INTO IT.

We then explored the western side of the island, where my freshly invigorated sense of self-confidence inspired me to try to take our rental car through a mud trail.  After a few hundred yards, a raised Toyota pickup truck pulled up beside us.

Him:  You familiar with this trail?
Me:  No.  Do I need to be?
Him:  It gets worse…you’re probably going to end up slashing a tire or stuck in mud if you keep on.  Just letting you know, man.
Me:  Eat a dick, asshole!  Um, okay…thanks.

View from the windshield of our Nissan Rogue.

What everyone else on the trail was driving.

The day of the flight home, I thought this a good hike to do carrying a 22# baby:  Koko Head Crater Trail.  I thought I would die.

It’s an inclined railway straight up a mountain.  It’s pretty much like Everest, but will less snow.

About 2/3 of the way up or so, I started out across this bridge with no  railings and stopped.  Pretty Bride had caught up to us and was not happy with my carrying her baby across this thing, so I came back.  I debated going the rest of the way alone, but I wanted to snorkel at Hanauma Bay for  a bit before going to the airport, so we walked back down.

Here’s the bay, with a view of the mountain we’d just tried to climb in the background.  I’m still not sure why I thought this was a good idea on our last day (especially with no water or backpack for baby).

The reason I mentioned 100 friends is that everywhere we went, whether it be surf shops, restaurants, sidewalks, bars, stores, or airports, people would stop to talk to Lola and ask about her.  They acted as if they’d never seen a baby before (I’ve since surmised that it’s because not many idiots would take an 8-month-old on a plane ride as long as the one we had to take and then carry her all over the island for a week, but since she’s nursing, we didn’t have much choice).  It made the inconvenience of her nap times/feeding times/occasional fussiness worth it, as she brought frequent joy to strangers everywhere we went.

Except for the plane ride home.  In the first hour, she let loose the most foul crap I’ve ever smelled and then spat up on my lap.  Then she screamed and cried for an hour before falling asleep.  Since the flight attendant refused to take the diaper (which we put in the vomit bag) and shut off the “stewardess light” 3 times without asking what help we needed, we left it there to emit its glorious odor for the 8.5 hours that followed, plus wherever the plane went after we got off.  You’re welcome.

I’m pretty sure I want this to be how I do my annual training every year (yes, I did work a few hours most every day, but it was usually from 0400 until just shy of lunchtime, leaving lots of free time).  Thanks, readers who pay taxes!