I WASHED HULK'S HANDS

I'll admit that when I found out I was pregnant, I was kinda hoping for a girl. And I'll also admit it was completely based on the most trivial reasons. For one, have you seen the girl clothes at Target and Old Navy? They're so cute I find myself envying six month old babies. For two, I zoomed way into the future and imagined my lonely old self working my rocking chair on my front porch with no visitor in sight, because I've heard what people say about sons. You know, something about how he's only a son until he takes a wife. Ugh, even thinking about that saying makes me sad.

Then I had that 16 week ultrasound. A boy. The doctor circled the little blurry indicator and printed me and Luke off a copy to take home. It changed everything.

Then that little boy came into my world and I was smitten. Done-zo. White flag waived. What's a girl?

And now, 16 months later, I'm surrounded by hot wheels, Tonka trucks, and a mini Bobcat ... the heavy machinery kind. A quick trip to Lowe's turns into an hour long lawn mower amusement park for Desi, and I find myself excited to point out garbage trucks. Garbage trucks!

Oh, and then there's the hulk hands.

Big, green, cotton-stuffed hulk hands. One hand has a sound box in it so that when you hit it against something it yells out one of the following three sayings. All, coincidentally, perfect for moms. (And scary as crap when you forget the hands are in the back seat of your car and you hit a bump.)

- "Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry."
- "Hulk smash!"
- and then just a loud and scary hulkish yell

In the last month, Desmond has finally built up the nerve to put them on. Now they're on often. His little arms weighted down, his toddler body swaying wildly from all the "smashing".

Just last week we were sharing some chicken nuggets with a little ketchup on the plate. Desmond decided that hulk hands were appropriate lunch apparel. Next thing I know the hulk hands tried to grasp a chicken nugget and dip it into the ketchup. It didn't happen, of course. Just smeared ketchup all over hulk's fist. I felt myself start to get hulkish inside, imagining everything he'd smash with ketchup before I could get the hands away from him. What the heck? Seriously, Desmond? Are you kidding me? Hulk smash!

Then I stopped and thought about it, laughed, and got up to wash the ketchup off the hulk hand. Did that really just happen? Never in my life did I imagine that scene playing out. But that's what's so great about life, the curveballs. The unexpected. The boy parts on an ultrasound screen. The sweet sound of a little boy calling me momma. All way better than anything I could dream up on my own.

I mean, I just washed hulk's hands.

DON'T FORGET TO WRITE

I think I've mentioned my love for books, right? Or as my husband would probably call it, "a problem". On days when the towers of books beside by bed are toppling over into toddler-tripping floor ruble, I might actually agree with him.

Just this past Saturday, Luke wanted to get out of the house. We got the boys ready and hopped into the car, he asks me where I want to go. Hmm ... I don't know ... used bookstore? His response, "So we can add to the stacks of books in our bedroom? And maybe start barricading ourselves in our house with books?" Well, no that's not exactly what I had planned. But now that you've mentioned it.

We ended up going to the Saturday flea market. And wouldn't you know, I found myself a book. Luke just smiled and shook his head. Hey, you can keep the girl from the used bookstore, but you can't keep the used books from the girl. I just find them. Or they find me.

In this case, I think the book was waiting for me. I mean seriously, it was a match made in flea market heaven. In a large building full of tables and tables of flea market doodads and vendors I see this one table with books sprawled across it, all different sizes and styles. Then I notice a simple piece of paper folded to stand up like a roof that states "books on this table $1". I get slightly excited just reading the sign. What cheaply priced treasures! Then I spot this book. Is it talking to me? I look from side to side, point at myself ... me? I mean, I have been wanting to write more often, and the reminder would be nice, and I do really like simple kitschy sketches, and I ... and I ... and I ... (flipping book over) ... author lives in Paris, writes for New York Herald Tribune as French contributor ... ooh la la, my dream. A writer living in Paris? I couldn't get that dollar out of my purse fast enough.

What's the point of this story? I have no idea. But I am writing.