as i say. or, thank you grandpa franz. or, look Mel, paragraphs. or, Trina this nose is for you.

Last night I was on the tarmac, getting ready to leave O'Hare for Champaign and I was g-chatting (that's what the kids are calling IMing these days) with my good friend Cory, about an unfortunate run-in he had with some environmentally unfriendly Mormons. As the flight attendant made her rounds asking us to turn off all electronic devices including two way pagers, I powered down my phone and pulled out my book. As I was transitioning from the chat with Cory to my book, I did what I typically do when I'm mentally multi-tasking: I picked my nose. I had already scoped out my "drop zone" (not in the aisle, not on my pant leg, not on my carry on) so I was using discretion as I dug away; halfway between Glenn Beck and Steven Levitt in my head.

I had pulled away from my excavation recreation and settled into my book when I noticed a hand outstretched across the aisle towards me. In the hand was a little package of Kleenex; the hand was attached to an arm, which led to a lady, who, with arched eyebrows and a pitying look asked, "do you need one of these?" I had no idea how to respond, so I simply said, "I don't think so." She kept the Kleenex in my face, and without saying a word her expression yelled, "Um, yeah you do." I turned quickly back to my book and she gave up shortly thereafter. As I sat there, processing what had just occurred, I was left with only one thing to do. Well, two things. Ok, three. First, I checked for a hanger. Because potentially, I had a big ol' booger dangling from my nose that would indeed warrant a much appreciated tissue from a stranger. After discovering no such unfortunate stow away, I laughed to myself because of this unexpected airplane interaction (c'mon, who does this!?). Then finally, I did what any other reasonable adult would do; I put my finger in my nose and left it there. For the entire 29 minute flight down to Champaign I was picking my nose, altering fingers and occasionally striking the Grandpa Franz pose (thumb on chin, index finger on temple, middle finger in nose, pinkie and thumb dangling). I know she saw me, but she just pulled out her handheld Yahtzee player, pushed play on her disc man, and completely ignored me the rest of the flight.

During the flight while I was was picking and pretending to read, I had the chance to consider what had driven this woman to an inexplicable moment of boldness. Had she been through a rough relationship with a nose picker? Did she find it morally reprehensible? Did she think I would pick, roll, and flick in her direction? I was shocked and intrigued. I wanted to find out where she was coming from, but instead I sat there and made every shallow observation possible with the hope of arriving at some conclusion (missing teeth, orange Fanta, nose ring, smokers skin and voice, blonde highlights, white K-Swiss, acid wash jeans, faux snakeskin belt). Still, I had nothing. Maybe her reaction was visceral; however, when I told Brennan the story and asked him what he thought about her behavior, he concluded that "she probably thought you were uhskusting (*disgusting*)." I am sure he has overheard Lori denounce my nose picking with those exact words. Grandma Mary to my Edgar. I tell Brennan not to pick his nose.

Maybe it is disgusting, or maybe her reaction to my boogers is the same as the aforementioned Mormons' response to the question of why self-proclaimed creationists don't feel a greater responsibility to protect the environment ("because global warming is a lie"). At some point Ms. Anti-boog made up her mind that nose picking is ridiculous and she was sticking to that opinion. It was not open for debate. And in fact, she is so convinced of this fact, that she is willing to take great social risks to convince others that it must stop. For some people, some things are not open for debate or discussion. While I suppose that's ok (and of course I naturally take this approach on some things as well) I think its equally ok for people to pick their nose in opposition (or the appropriate equivalent).

Brennan, Zoe, and Ava, I welcome you to do the same in my moments of self-assured boldness. I think...

Envelope. PLEASE.

To celebrate our nine year anniversary, Lori and I took off for a weekend in Chicago. It was great. Good food, some shopping, a couples massage, Avett Brothers, some shopping, and spending money like we didn't have anything better to do with our money (we do). The BEST part of the weekend was that our kids were sick the whole time we were gone. This was great for two reasons: a) they were sick while we were gone and b) their babysitter, my mother-in-law, is a nurse. She LOVES taking care of people. Our kids healthy are hard to keep up with. When the kids are sick they are pretty mellow and cuddly. This was perfect for Lori's mom. We had it planned perfectly--we'd arrive home, and everyone would be on the mend, and a great weekend would get even greater. We caught the train back to town, arrived home at 6pm on Monday evening, and walked through the front door to find three happy and excited little kids. The house was REALLY clean, the kids were REALLY healthy, and we each did a pair of double fist pumps in our heads (thanks Maggie). Kids were in bed by 7:30 and we follwed suit by 9:00. As we were drifting off to sleep, Ava started to make some noise. The noise grew to crying. And then to all out frantic screaming. I went in, got her settled down, and returned to bed. Screaming 2 minutes later. Lori went in. To no avail. There was no fever, no coughing, no explanation. Then, just as Ava tilted her head back to perfectly position herself for an animalistic yelp (think wolf howl or hippo yawn) we saw them. Two molars, jutting through like two middle-fingered-shaped-rocks bursting rudely through the fertile Nebraskan soil. It looked like it hurt. Bad. Luckily, we got her settled down and back to sleep despite the knifelike portrusions. 20 minutes later, a thud came from Ava's room. Thuds coming from Ava's room aren't that uncommon; she typically throws all of her books out of the crib when she's frustrated. However, the thud on this night either came from a hard back edition of Atlas Shrugged, or Ava had thrown herself out of the crib. Ava had thrown herself out of the crib. We ran into the room ready to find Ava limp on the floor, but no, there she stood, like a victorious gladiator...standing and looking straight at us. Dazed, yes. But she was standing. Ava is in the 2nd percentile in most categories that pediatricians concern themselves with, but she is in the 105th percentile in the only category that matters (put Ava in a room with 100 other 17 month olds, and she will kick all their asses within 5 minutes. 100 + 5 = 105th percentile). I wanted an award for that night of parenthood. We deserved something. The weekend was planned too perfectly for it to end with defeat at the hands of a sleepless 1 year old UFC fighter. But I suppose there are no awards. The award is the moments when we enjoy anonymity, then brace ourselves for the natural slide back into reality where we still have bills, kids still have teeth and sleepless nights, and the bed still isn't made by an unknown third party with a key to our room.