How did women survive?

In one of my classes for graduate school, my professor asked, "Do any of you ever feel like you were born in the wrong time?" As I listened to a few classmates drone on about how they were certain they should have been born (coincidentally) in the time period we were studying, I began to convince myself that I was, in fact born in the wrong time.

OK, sure, whenever I think about living in another time, I am quick to remember that I am blessed to have access to medical care in this time. That's a gimme. (And really, I couldn't be more grateful for it.) But this is one of those hypothetical questions where you can romanticize and demonize aspects of society as you see fit.

After that lovely day in class, I determined that I had, in fact, been born in the wrong time. I wanted to live in a time where people were recognized for beautiful words and great deeds. Where men not only covered their rear ends when they left the house, but they fretted over things like hats and pocket squares.

But as time goes on, I have started remembering things I love about living now, like running water, countless devices to keep babies happy (can you imagine having a newborn without a swing?!? I would die), etc., etc. I was beginning to feel better about living in 2008, 2009, 2010 and 2011, but then my dishwasher broke.

I am here to testify that after hours and hours of hand-scrubbing dishes, I was so born in the right time. I don't know if you know this, but living without a dishwasher is awful. Miserable. My two weeks of experience have made me a believer in the power of technology.

And now if you'll excuse me, I can hear story time happening in the living room without me. And that's where I really want to be right now.

Jones Family Finishing School

Today a cute boy came over to play with Penelope. She wasn't happy with me when she woke up from her nap, and he ran in to say hi while she was still groggy. There was much baby screeching and shameful chubby finger pointing in my direction. (What was I thinking letting a boy see her when she was so unkempt?!?)

After she calmed down, however, she became a total love-struck idiot. Honestly, you would think the girl had never seen another child before. I tried to use it as a good learning opportunity (it's never too early to learn how to interact). Lesson points for the afternoon:

• Don't just stare. Play it cool. Pick up a block or something.

• OK, talking is good, but nonstop excited yelling is not.

• Don't take things out of his mouth.

• Seriously, when he starts backing away from you uncomfortably, stop trying to stroke his face. (I have a personal experience with odd face-stroking on a date. It's never a good move.)

• It's not flattering to chase him around the apartment. When he hits a dead sprint, you may want to reconsider your approach.

Who knew how it took this much effort to teach social graces?

By the way, after he went home, she sat by the front door for a good ten minutes, staring at it, hoping he would return.

And now a post for Stephanie (and anyone else who is interested)

Steph Face:

Penelope and I have been talking about you all day. Want to know why?

JEGGINGS!!!

what's that? oh yeah, she's just rocking some jeggings...

jeggings! (and a mess)

jeggings... in action.

jeggings.

Could I intrude on your life in a more shameless manner? Well, it was Penny's idea, so deal.

Yes, it really happened OR Adventures in cheesy jokes

Jesse calls this look Penelope's "Beethoven" hair. Get it? Because she kind of looks like Beethoven.

(Just imagine her with a stern look -- come on, Ludwig, it can't be that bad -- and clothing on. Get it now? Great, let's keep going.)

Well, after a rather epic nap, she woke up with some serious Beethoven head and a ridiculously full diaper. I put her down on her changing pad and started to do my thing, but she saw something interesting across the room and made a move for it.

I don't know if you've tried this before, but it is really difficult to change the diaper of a baby who has turned over and made a break for it. I did the good mom thing and started dragging her back to the changing pad with her new toy, but she refused to get on her back.

So in utter frustration, I screeched (please tell me you see where this is going? I can't believe I didn't.), "ROLL OVER, BEETHOVEN!"

Ah yes, little girl. The age of being embarrassed by my lame jokes has just begun.