Table Manners

Mostly, we dine alone. Table manners aren't a big priority, taking a back seat to things like actually getting food into your mouth, instead of, say, on your eyebrow.

But sometimes I get a little Emily Post on the Bot. I like him to express his appreciation for my culinary efforts. Because that orange? I peeled it myself, section by section, removed the casing with my fingernails so he could have the juicy sweet part without the bitter white part. Like a box of Lucky Charms with only the charms, or Captain Crunch with only the crunch-berries - the stuff of my childhood dreams.

Here you see the Bot has a lunch date with Mia and Taj. It's a high stakes lunch with the twins going commando style, without their bibs. We (adults) were looking forward to the possibility of a food fight, but other than the Robot's personal battle with the zucchini, everyone was well behaved.

Coast to Coast

Down Dog

Do you see the toothbrush? An essential part of the Robot's yoga practice.

**Spoiler Alert!**

She looks so innocent. You would totally leave your baby with her. I mean, she's babysitting for free. A hard opportunity to pass up. What could go wrong? Nothing, until you bring your baby back to Brooklyn and realize that he's grown accustomed to an entire different standard of living, one that involves him pointing and grunting at whatever strikes his fancy and you jumping up and giving it to him. Immediately. He points and grunts at a lamp, you turn it on. He does it again, you turn it off. And on. And off. And on, and on, and on. Don't refuse or react too slowly, or your formerly reasonable baby will take a turn for the inconsolable.

Beware: don't leave your baby with this Grandma for too long. Sure, you might see some movies, or eat dinner with someone who doesn't wear a bib, or reconnect with your husband. But eventually you will have to take your baby back. And you will pay a price much higher than $15/hour.

Plans

For my birthday I planned to take Roan to the Brooklyn Children's Museum. I know, not all that ambitious in terms of birthday plans. It is 3.6 miles away and takes only 12 minutes to get there by car, according to Mapquest. I had the entire day free. But I've learned from experience that when you combine a 1-year-old with my organizational skills and subzero degree weather it will take a miracle to even leave the apartment.

Birthday Plan: Cultural Enlightenment
Birthday Reality: 6 Loads of Laundry, Joint Nap, Took out Trash

The first monkey wrench in my plan was Roan's refusal to take his morning nap. So I trapped him in the bathroom while I showered. Except our bathroom door doesn't close all the way so I periodically jumped out of the shower and chased him around the apartment dripping wet to keep him from a)unloading the dishwasher, b)turning on the stove, c)changing the spin cycle on the washing machine, d)blasting Dolly Parton's "Jolene" on repeat. Needless to say, it took me longer than anticipated to get ready.

While "trapped" in the bathroom Roan saw his toothbrush. I won't pretend to understand it, but when Roan sees his toothbrush it's like an alcoholic just sprung from rehab gazing at a bottle of Jack, or when Harry finds Sally at that New Years Party. Magical reunion. He has to have it. He can't live without it. Initially I didn't give it to him. He cried and cried. 20 minutes after I gave it to him he was still making those post-traumatic sniffle noises and giving me dirty looks.

Then it was lunch time. Why does it take so long for me to prepare Roan's lunch? No matter how long it takes me to make it, it takes him longer to eat it. And then it takes twice as long to clean us both up, and 4 times as long if you wipe everything down and wash the dishes (why I generally skip those steps). So it's 2PM and Roan is worn out. I put him down for a nap. He wakes up crying after half an hour and when I pick him up he passes out in my arms. I bring him to bed with me and he sleeps for another 2 hours while I read and doze. By the time he wakes up and I put on his coat the museum is closed. We take the trash out. Going outside, even for a mere 5 minutes, gives us both the sense of accomplishment we needed.

Boat and Boat

Last week the Brooklyn Boat met the California Boat. Our entire family wore matching Macs sweatshirts for the occasion, in the hopes that we would take a family photo. Even though we spent most of the week together (wearing our Macs sweatshirts every day, more or less), the family photo never happened. The photo below came close, but still only captured 1/3 of the family. You can see that the Brooklyn Boat displays a disgust for family photos that most kids don't develop until early adolescence. He's so advanced.

In the cabin with the Grub.

On the foredeck with Grandma Mac

Lifejackets

You can tell from the photos that it wasn't great sailing weather. It was 70s and sunny for most of the trip, except on Wednesday, when we went sailing, and it rained. We had better luck the previous afternoon, when we hit the beach with Julia.

At the beach

Sunset

Family Photo

Here is the result of many many attempts to take a family photo where all family members have their eyes open and are looking in the general direction of the camera. An impossible task made even more challenging by the photographer, Roger Lyons, who must adhere to the photo-journalist style of clicking away spontaneously, never letting on to his subjects exactly when they are being photographed. This annual photo-on-the-couch is a Lyons family tradition, taken as seriously as the eating-the-pointy-end-of-the-pie-last tradition and being a fanatic Spurs fan. You can see that Julia is holding last year's photo in a frame, and in last year's photo she's holding the previous year's photo, and on and on so that if you had a powerful enough magnifying glass you could look back through history and see the very first Lyons, sitting alone on a rock or whatever passed for a sofa back then, hands empty.

We have a lot of Thanksgiving traditions. Everyone has to cook something, even people who aren't good cooks, like me and Roan. In previous years I've tried to dodge this rule by washing dishes, but that came to an end when I broke a really nice dish. I've tried to designate myself as a floater - a sous chef for anyone who finds themselves pressed for time and needs assistance - but no one was eager to let me mess up their dish. I've made the salad, because lets face it, no one eats the salad at Thanksgiving. But this year, with 6 solid months of pureeing baby food under my belt, I found the inspiration and courage to cook something that other people ate.

The kitchen is chaotic on Thanksgiving, like an episode of Iron Chef with everyone dashing around with exotic kitchen equipment wondering where the salt went, or who moved the oil, or where their recipe is. The Robot responded to all the excitement by running endless circles around the center island, and Julia thought he was chasing her, or maybe she was chasing him; either way you can picture the scene: armed adults and manic children rushing around, narrowly avoiding catastrophe. It was fabulous.

In keeping with tradition:

• Jay fell asleep on the couch.

• Andrew gave a speech that made everyone cry.

• Alisha and Roger had a heated debate about Starbucks.

And Roan experienced his first sugar high. He mooched sweets so quickly and from such disparate sources that we had no idea how much he'd eaten until we noticed him sprinting around the kitchen at top speed, literally bouncing off the cabinets.

Here's the whole crew: