I Have a New Curse Word.

As I sat down to quickly check email, somehow Alexis' lyrics cut through my many thick layers of I Can't Hear You. It's a skill I learned from Mr. Husband, a method of self-preservation. I simply ignore anything Alexis sings when we're at home. Given that she spends 99.9% of her waking hours making up words and phrases and stringing them together into lyrics, I rarely hear her. It's completely necessary that I block her out. COMPLETELY. Hearing her lyrics inevitably leads to trying to understand her lyrics and absolutely no good can come of that.

I mean, what's the point in trying to find the logic in lyrics like, "There's a volcano in my ear . . . dance girl, dance . . . the kalilli is on fire?" THERE IS NO POINT.

But, somehow, someway, her words cut through to my head. She was singing some sort of alphabet song and despite knowing that nothing good could come of paying attention, I found myself tuned into her words.

"D is for dinner, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah," she sang. (Literally. She sang the non-word, "blah, blah, blah" out loud.)

"E is for elephant . . ." she continued, humming where I assumed the second half of the line belonged.

"F is for f*ck . . ." OH, YES, SHE DID.

"G is for God, who from heaven talked to nanny sooooo," Well, OF COURSE. If F is going to be for THAT, then why wouldn't G be for God? And why wouldn't he be talking to the nanny? Who else would he want to chat with?

Apparently sensing a little parental concern, Alexis paused in her singing. Looking up at me, she started to sing the song over again, this time watching me closely for a reaction.

I remained stone-faced even as she repeated the exact same lyrics for a second time. I was listening closely to her intonation, trying to determine if her word choices were intentional or the product of her usual need to create fake words when she doesn't have a real one.

She was making up the word, or at least she thought she was making it up. The conviction just wasn't there to make me think it was an intentional choice of sounds.

Realizing that she truly had my full attention, Alexis began to ask, "Momma, what does f*ck mean?" It's something she does all the time--she makes up words and then acts like I should know what they mean.

It was EXACTLY the word that was running through my head at the moment is what it meant. In a flash, I blurted out, "It's not a nice word, do you mean 'fudge?' or 'funny?' or 'fantastic?'"

"FUDGE!" she shouted. "I meant FUDGE!"

She started the song over again, this time using the slightly less graphic f word.

I sat completely still as she continued to sing, worried that if I so much as breathed a sigh of relief, she'd realize that it would be Really! Great! Fun! to incorporate her new word into her vocabulary on a daily basis. Fun for her. Not me. It wouldn't be fun for me at all.

A few minutes went by, me silently considering whether I needed to make more of a big deal about the accidental cussing or if I was better off just letting it go. Alexis continued to sing the song, over and over. Except I realized that she was singing a whole new set of lyrics on her most recent repeat.

"A is for angel," she started. This was new. A had been an apple before that moment. She continued on, declaring that B is for Bethlehem and C for cattle. Realizing that the whole song had abrubtly changed, I sat silent eagerly waiting to hear what F was going to bring.

Frankincense. F brought Frankincense.

I have a whole new perspective on those Three Kings and their gifts now. The dirty old men . . .

When You're Wearing the Black and Gold, You're Always Prepared

When you are born in Pittsburgh, there are certain things that are just flat-out required of you.

You must learn to understand the language. "Yinz" and "slippy" and "gumbands" are part of the lexicon. Know it. Own it. Be it.

You must admire the power of the zip-up sweater as you proclaim, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood!" at least once per year. No, once per month. WAIT! WEEK! Once per WEEK!

And you absolutely, positively must bleed black and gold. It says so right on your birth certificate. "Born in Pittsburgh, PA" is Yinz for "Born to be a Steelers fan," after all.

To read more and see oodles of super-cute baby photos n'at, head over here.

Where Have All the Children Gone?

It started with an email from the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust, an invitation of sorts. It asked if I would like to go to Philadelphia to see Burn the Floor. Which, uh, Philly? Not my favorite place. (Understatement of the year right there.) And Burn the Floor? Whazzat?

The email continued to explain that it was a show, essentially ballroom dancing on stage, and was sort of like Dancing with the Stars or So You Think You Can Dance. Oh, hai, I can't say that is quite up my alley, but it is absolutely a potentially winning concept in Alexis' book.

So, this past Friday, Alexis and I boarded a plane and went to Philadelphia. In some people's worlds, the idea of flying solo with a 4-year old would be right up there with a trip to the dentist or getting smacked in the head with a sledgehammer, but my kid is a dork. A crayon-loving dork.

That's all she did the entire flight. She listened to music on her iPod and colored. SUCH A REBEL.

(She is available to train your kid on how to act while flying for the low, low price of $1 million.)

So we made it all the way to Philadelphia without anyone ripping their hair out and then spent an afternoon just hanging out. Fortunately, I really like my kid because we spent hours walking around downtown Philly and shopping and eating and then a little bit of time trapped in a hotel together as I attempted to convince her to take a nap. She was having none of it because, of course, hotels are better than playgrounds. But still, even without a nap, she was really, really good.

As I was sitting there looking at her not nap, it dawned on me. I had not seen a single other kid ALL FREAKIN' DAY. I'm completely serious. We walked all over the downtown, ventured into dozens of stores, even ate dinner at Applebee's of all places, and saw no kids. Is downtown Philly some sort of kid-free zone? Did I break the law by taking Alexis there? Were all the kids at a meeting in the suburbs plotting how they will take over the world? Should I be scared?

Eventually the only child in all of downtown Philadelphia and I needed to head to the show, and this is the part where I need to make you go over here to read about that because of ads and conflicts and blah, blah, blah.