Fix Bayonets!

In the spring of 2003, just after we invaded Iraq and soon after I was selected to join 1/5., Capt. John Maloney took me to the library upstairs in O'Bannon Hall at TBS, and walked straight up to a small red book on the shelf, the precise location of which he very clearly knew by heart. "You're going to want to read this one," he said. 

Since that day, I have loved the imagery and cadence in the writings of John W. Thomason, a Marine Captain during World War I with service in the 1st Battalion of the 5th Marine Regiment. His book, Fix Bayonets, is in my mind some of the finest American writing (as well as battlefield sketches) to come out of that war. 

More than just his descriptions of factual events, the tone and measure with which he describes Marine traditions, set down in print nearly 100 years ago, still rings true with a certain timeless character that is the very best of our ethos. Thomason's essay, Leathernecks, excerpted below, is a great example (the illustrations are Thomason's as well).

Enjoy.

***

LEATHERNECKS
by John W. Thomason 

THEY tell the tale of an American lady of notable good works, much esteemed by the French, who, at the end of June, 1918, visited one of the field hospitals behind Degoutte's Sixth French Army.  Degoutte was fighting on the face of the Marne salient, and the 2d American Division, then in action around the Bois de Belleau, northeast of Chateau Thierry, was under his orders.  It happened that occasional casualties of the Marine Brigade of the 2d American Division, wounded toward the flank where Degoutte's own horizon-blue infantry joined on, were picked up by French stretcher-bearers and evacuated to French hospitals.  And this lady, looking down a long, crowded ward, saw on a pillow a face unlike the fiercely whiskered Gallic heads there displayed in rows.  She went to it. 

"Oh," she said, "surely you are an American!" 

"No, ma'am," the casualty answered.  I'm a Marine."

The men who marched up the Paris-Metz road to meet the Boche in the spring of 1918, the 5^th and 6^th Regiments of United States Marines, were gathered from various places.  In the big war companies, 250 strong, you could find every sort of man, from every sort of calling.  There were North-westerners with straw-colored hair that looked white against their tanned skins, and delicately spoken chaps with the stamp of the Eastern universities on them.  There were large-boned fellows from Pacific-coast lumber camps, and tall, lean Southerners who swore amazingly in gentle drawling voices.  There were husky farmers from the corn-belt, and youngsters who had sprung, as it were, to arms from the necktie counter.  And there were also a number of diverse people who ran curiously to type, with drilled shoulders and a bone-deep sunburn, and a tolerant scorn of nearly everything on earth.  Their speech was flavored with navy words, and words culled from all the folk who live on the seas and the ports where our war-ships go.  In easy hours their talk ran from the Tartar Wall beyond Peking to the Southern Islands down under Manila; from Portsmouth Navy Yard-New Hampshire and very cold-to obscure bush-whackings in the West Indies, where Cacao chiefs whimsically sanguinary, barefoot generals, with names like Charlemagne and Christophe, waged war according to the precepts of the French Revolution and the Cult of the Snake.  They drank the eau de vie of Haute-Marne, and reminisced on sake, and vino, and Bacardi Rum-strange drinks in strange cantinas at the far ends of the earth; and they spoke fondly of Milwaukee beer.  Rifles were high and holy things to them, and they knew five-inch broadside guns.  They talked patronizingly of the war, and were concerned about rations.  They were the Leathernecks, the Old Timers; collected from ship's guards and shore stations all over the earth to form the 4 ^th Brigade of Marines, the two rifle regiments detached from the Department of the Navy by order of the President for service with the American Expeditionary Forces.  They were the old breed of American regular, regarding the service as home and war as an occupation; and they transmitted their temper and character and view-point to the high-hearted volunteer mass which filled the ranks of the Marine Brigade.

It is a pleasure to record that they found good company in the U. S. Army.  The 2d Division (U. S. Regular was the official designation) was composed of the 9^th and 23d Infantry, two old regiments with names from all of our wars on their battle-flags, the 2d Regiment of Engineers-and engineers are always good-and the 12^th, 15^th, and 17^th Field Artillery.  It was a division distinguished by the quality of dash and animated by an especial pride of service.  It carried to a high degree esprit de corps, which some Frenchman has defined as esteeming your own corps and looking down on all the other corps.  And although it paid heavily in casualties for the things it did-in five months about 100 per cent-the 2d Division never lost its professional character.

Seven years after, across the world from France, I met a major of the American General Staff, who was on the Paris-Metz road that last week in May, 1918, and saw the Marine Brigade.  "They looked fine, coming in there," he said.  "Tall fellows, healthy and fit-they looked hard and competent.  We watched you going in, through those little tired Frenchmen, and we all felt better.  We knew something was going to happen-" and we were silent, over Chilean wine, in a place on the South Pacific, thinking of those days and those men.

There is no sight in all the pageant of war like young, trained men going up to battle.  The columns look solid and businesslike.  Each battalion is an entity, 1,200 men of one purpose.  They go on like a river that flows very deep and strong.  Uniforms are drab these days, but there are points of light on the helmets and the bayonets, and light in the quick, steady eyes and the brown young faces, greatly daring.  There is no singing - veterans know, and they do not sing much - and there is no excitement at all; they are schooled crafts-men going up to impose their will, with the tools of their trade, on another lot of fellows; and there is nothing to make a fuss about.  Battles are not salubrious places, and every file knows that a great many more are going in than will come out again-but that goes along with the job.  And they have no illusions about the job. 

There is nothing particularly glorious about sweaty fellows, laden with killing tools, going along to fight.  And yet-such a column represents a great deal more than 28,000 individuals mustered into a division.  All that is behind those men is in that column too:   the old battles, long forgotten, that secured our nation - Brandywine and Trenton and Yorktown, San Jacinto and Chapultepec, Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Antietam, El Caney; scores of skirmishes, far off, such as the Marines have nearly every year in which a man can be killed as dead as ever a chap in the Argonne; traditions of things endured and things accomplished, such as regiments hand down forever; and the faith of men and the love of women; and that abstract thing called patriotism, which I never heard combat soldiers mention-all this passes into the forward zone, to the point of contact, where war is girt with horrors.  Common men endure these horrors and overcome them, along with the insistent yearnings of the belly and the reasonable promptings of fear; and in this, I think, is glory.

In Charles the Second's time the English formed the first sea regiment-soldiers equipped as infantry, to serve on the sea in the fleet; to clear with musketry the enemy's decks and fighting-tops when the ship's of the line went into close action; to go ashore, and take up positions when the naval forces seized a base preliminary to land operations of the army.

Here by the way, comes the quip of old time:  "Tell it to the Marines."  They relate of Charles the Second that at Whitehall a certain sea-captain, newly returned from the Western Ocean, told the king of flying fish, a thing never heard in old England.  The king and the court were vastly amused.  But, the naval fellow persisting, the Merry Monarch beckoned to a lean, dry colonel of the sea regiment, with a seamed mahogany face, and said, in effect:  "Colonel, this tarry-breeks here makes sport with us stay-at-homes.  He tells us of a miraculous fish that forsakes its element and flies like a bird over the water."  "Sire," said the Colonel of Marines, "he tells a true thing.  I myself have often seen those fish in your Majesty's seas around Barbados-...."  "Well," decided Charles, "such evidence cannot be disputed.  And hereafter, when we hear a strange thing, we will tell it to the Marines, for the Marines go everywhere and see everything, and if they say is is so, we will believe it!"

The Continental Congress, on 10 November, 1775, authorized a corps of American Marines.  This was the first Federal armed force to be raised by the young nation, and it antedated both the Federal army and navy, which had until that time, been matters of individual commonwealths.  And since that date Marines have participated honorably in all American wars, and in some affairs, more or less interesting, where powder was burnt but which do not rate as wars.    

Captain Richard Dale's Marines served with John Paul Jones, and manned the fighting tops of his ship, the Bonhomme Richard.   The task of the Marines was to shoot down on the enemy ships, attending, in particular, to enemy officers.  When the crew of one ship boarded another, it was difficult or impossible to tell friend from foe from high above.  For that reason Marines officers adopted the peculiar device that resembled an embroidered cross so that their marksmen could tell friend from foe.  Look at any Marine officers barracks or dress hat.  You'll continue to see that same device embroidered there as a tribute to those long ago Marines who fought so gallantly some two-hundred years ago.  Marines love tradition. 

Those Marines in the fighting tops were also tasked, when possible, to drop explosive devices on the decks, or better yet through the hatches of enemy ships.  Such a device thrown from the fighting tops of the Richard set off the powder-magazine of H. M. S. Serapis. This event turned the tide of events in favor of the poor old Richard, in the fight off Flamborough Head.  There were United States Marines in Barney's naval force, formed across the Bladensburg Road, when Admiral Cockburn's people marched to burn Washington; and they stayed there until the line was turned by British regulars and they were all, including Barney, casualties;  it was the only material resistance the British met.  Marines marched to Mexico City in 1846; the red stripe on the blue trousers of officers and non-commissioned officers commemorates to this day service in that war.  Marines served in the Civil War very widely:  Marines died on Henry Hill at First Manassas  and on the fire-swept beaches in front of  Fort Fisher, and on the Mississippi around Vicksburg and Island No. 10.  Colonel Huntington's Marines took Guantanamo, landing from the U. S. S. Marbleheadin 1898.  They marched to Peking in 1900, and were in the legation guard shut up there during the Boxer trouble.  Cuba knows them, and the Philippines.  They were ashore at Vera Cruz in 1914; every uneasy and volatile Wet Indian and Central American republic has become acquainted with them in a professional way, and their appearance at storm centers has always produced very presently a sweet tranquility.  The navy takes them there, and sends bluejackets and chow along always.  Every capital ship carries a guard of them.  Aboard ship, besides forming the nucleus of the ship's landing force, they man the secondary batteries, the five-inch guns; furnish guards of honor for the comings and goings of the admiral and distinguished visitors, and so forth; perform all manner of curious and annoying details; and post ship's sentries whose meticulous ideas about the enforcement of orders lacerate the souls of jolly mariners, seamen, and engineer ratings.  Normally, the strength of the corps is twenty per cent of the navy; just now there are about 19,000.  They constitute an organization within an organization, with their own commandant, who functions under the Secretary of the Navy, as a separate and distinct service like the U. S. Navy, as in the past, in time of war, the U. S. Coast Guard.  The rank and file are good enough Latinists to know what "Semper Fidelis"-which is their word-means; and any private will assure you the Marines are a corps d'elite.

In 1917, when trained Soldiers in the United States were at a premium, the Navy Department offered a Brigade of Marines for service in France; it was regarded desirable for Marine officers to have experience in large operations with the army; for it is certain that close co-operation between the army and the navy is a necessary thing in these days of far-flung battle lines.  The British distress at Gallipoli is a crying witness to this principle.  In a navy transport, therefore, U. S. S. Henderson, the 5^th Regiment of Marines embarked for France in June, 1917,with the first armed American forces.  The 6^th Marines followed.  The two regiments constituted the 4^thBrigade, and served in the 2d Division.  U. S. Regular, until the division came home in August, 1919.  About 30,000 Marines were sent to France; some 14,000 of these were replacements to maintain the two regiments of the 4 ^th Brigade.  A brigade musters some 7,500 officers and men; this brigade took part in some very interesting events.

Elsewhere, I have written of the Marines in the war with Germany; how they went up, and what they did there, and how some of them came out again.  Being a Marine, I have tried to set forth simple tales without comment.  It is unnecessary to write what I think of my own people, nor would it be, perhaps, in the best taste. 

And I have written of Marines in this war because they are the folks I know about myself.  Those battle-fields were very large, and a man seldom saw much or very far beyond his own unit, if he had a job in hand.  As a company officer, I always had a job.  There is no intent to overlook those very gallant gentlemen, our friends, the U. S. Army.  Their story is ours, too. 

***

Compromised

Our lovely caring son Jack has the makings of a top-notch counter-sniper team: incredible patience, an eagle eye, memory like an elephant and a bias of un-hesitating action. To wit:

Ol' Santa has been busy around the 'Boro, running hither and yon, directing her elves in all manner of ways to prepare for the coming of Christmas morn. In her sly way, she makes passing suggestions like "Wouldn't you like some galoshes from Santa, Jack?," hardly hesitating to hear the reply but busily moving on to other more pressing matters. It's hard to believe he even notices, though his eyes go briefly wide with excitement - maybe just a seed has been planted. He goes back to whatever near-mishap is close at hand, hardly missing a beat.

But remember he does. Oh yes - he remembers well.

One of Santa's well-meaning but non-detail-oriented elves put said galoshes way up on the top of the dresser, presumably out of sight of peering 3-year olds and their pack of smaller siblings. Said elf did not anticipate that Jack would climb up and stand on top of his bed to make sure the regularly-appearing items on top of his dresser were undisturbed. And then, faithful readers, comes the pitter-patter of little soon-to-be-clad-in-yellow-rubber feet:

"Mommy!!! Santa came early and brought my galoshes! Come see!!"

Silence. Bewilderment. Chagrin. Sniper in the open. Compromised.

"Umm, hey big guy.. I talked to Santa the other day and he was having trouble finding your size, but I found some at the store so I went and got you some. Want to go ahead and try them on?"

Back to the drawing board.

Ol' MacDonald Has a Brain Spider

These kids crack me up...

Waxing Gibbous

I feel full. Or rather, I feel like my life is getting full. There are days when I am so torn between all of the emotions, events, demands, obligations, and opportunities of life that I just can't decide which direction to turn next. Driving home tonight, after a little over 15 hours at the office trying to finalize a summary judgment brief, I just could not help thinking about all of these things, and dozens more that I can't recall. Now, half past midnight, I am drawn to a simple text editor, trying to empty out some of the thoughts in my head so that it is just a little less full, and maybe then I can sleep.

Full of love. My life is full of love, more than I feel like I can appreciate. I am floored by how sincere, and sweet, and loving my children are. How honest, and devoted, and caring my wife is. How quickly our lives have gone from one to two to five to full. All day long I kept opening this picture - taken a few weeks ago of all five of us, just a snapshot of a glimmer of fun, nothing like the real thing - but I probably opened it 5 or six times, just to stare at it a few minutes and recharge.



Too full of myself. I was working like a dog today to get this assignment finished, and all three of us stayed at the office until 11:30, until it was done. There should be a sense of relief, of accomplishment - but there's not, because tomorrow or the next day or the next week it is the same old routine. I need to just back off and not try to do so much, because I know it is wearing me thin just as much as it wears on the rest of my family. Doc especially, who bears the brunt of my absence or distraction. And the kids - Jack especially - who are starting to realize when one of us is gone.

I recalled driving home how much fun it is to play in the waves at the beach, when you re comfortable in the water and know that a big one will come every now and then that you aren't quite ready for, but you just roll with it and pop back up the first chance you get. But there are times, when it really catches you off balance, and then before you get back up the next one rolls in, bigger than it looks, and for a little bit you take a good pounding until that set is over. But before it is over, before you say Hey, maybe I should go sit on the sand for a bit - you start to get hear that little voice of panic saying How many more times am I going to get knocked down? I didn't realize a wave could pound you that hard against the sand. When you are on top and catching the crest, its a lot of fun - but if you get caught off guard in a big set, well - it will wear you out. Makes you stop for a minute and think Maybe I'm not in charge here, there's a lot of power out there that I didn't fully appreciate.

Full of loss; full of grief; full of regret. Bob Millikan, a good friend and great role model, passed away earlier this month. Bob taught me to row, came to our wedding, wrote me a recommendation for law school and a handwritten letter when jack was born. "Long battle with a chronic disease" was the line - but when that happens, you wonder Could I have been a better friend? Spent a little more time staying in touch? Noah Pippin has been on my mind a lot this summer as well. Noah was one of our Marines in 1/5. Incredibly bright, remarkable person, he wandered off into the Montana wilderness in 2010 and his remains were discovered earlier this month. He knew what he was doing - I think. Maybe he saw a beauty in it that I see hints of but just cannot quite come to terms with. Unlike Bob, he was likely not a person I would have seen again. For some reason I still miss his presence in the world.

I feel like I am entering the fullness of my life, that I should stop and take more than just a sip of the depth of beauty and love and loss and sadness that surrounds us all. And at the same time, knocked over by wave after wave, drinking becomes a concern very secondary to just drawing another breath whenever you get the chance.

Full of hope. I pray that I will always be full of hope. There is so much potential in life, so much capacity in each of us, for love and happiness.

The red pill

A good friend of mine recently had her first baby and sent me an email today thanking me for being so excited for her, as if it was an emotion I mustered up on her behalf to keep her afloat.  She is very much still in the post-partum, sleep-deprived haze of a first-born one-month-old and will get to a point when she realizes that I actually really do want to hear about how she managed to get all the way to the grocery store and back without any vomit on her shirt, but it got me thinking about why it is I cannot help but get so giddy over my friends' offspring.

Perhaps it's because I know what they have in store.  

Tonight, when I got home late from my meeting and went back into the kids room to kiss them goodnight, they were still awake. You'd have thought Elmo himself wearing a sweater of Hot n' Nows just walked in
their room by the expressions on their faces. We laid on the bed for over an hour and I was told about the unhealthy but obvious man-dinner Daddy provided (which Matilda will neither confirm nor deny but from what I could gather consisted of roasted flour tortillas that puffed up into "balloons," purple mac n cheese, and "so so much milk my belly sloshed in a bad way.")  I was also informed that Jackson is no longer a fan of cats, which is why Caroline was meowing and hissing periodically, and that putting one's nose in one's bottom is a bad idea. 

Becoming a parent is like choosing the red pill. You are suddenly thrown into a reality that anyone still in the fabricated reality of the Matrix cannot possibly understand or appreciate. It is overwhelmingly exciting to have a good friend cross over, if for no other reason than to commiserate on how incredibly inept our children can make us feel.  It doesn't hurt to share in their hilarious approach to the world, either.

Brothers

He has been welcomed with a genuine love I could not have known was possible by such little people.

Physician, heal thyself

People often tell me how lucky I am to be a doctor when my family members get sick.  I'm not sure what exactly about it they are envious of.  Clearly, it is easier for me to understand what is going on and appreciate the abilities and limitations of what our health care system can do.  Medicine these days has become a language unto itself so being bilingual is beyond helpful. And, truly, I'm sure there are some professional courtesies given to me, sometimes almost subconsciously, that I don't even really realize.  But there is a large part of being a physician that makes being a patient, or even worse the family member of a patient, a lot more difficult than I think most people realize.

Of course, I have never really known it any other way and, so, I am by no means complaining.  I have just had a series of events lately that have landed me on the wrong side of the doctor-patient relationship of which I am accustomed to generally being the controller and it leaves me contemplating the patient side of things. 

All medical providers should have to be patients, in various capacities, on regular intervals.  It provides an empathy and a humility I do not know how else to learn.  It also deepens our understanding and appreciation for the art and logistics of healing, none of which are taught in medical or nursing or PA school.  For instance, I was hospitalized in February with a fairly common intestinal infection.  Granted, I complicated it slightly by being 32 weeks pregnant at the time, but I have personally treated many people in the hospital with that very same infection and knew it perhaps better than my treating physicians did (given they were all OBGYNs).  I knew the symptoms, the treatment, the duration, the complications. I could quote statistics on rates of recurrence and transmission. I even had a fairly good concept of the pain it could cause, given that I've seen it enough to gauge the level of discomfort most people have.  What I failed to appreciate was what it means to a person to be isolated in a hospital room for a significant length of time.  To be woken every few hours day and night for blood draws or baby monitoring or vital signs or trash collection or room cleaning or meal delivery / pickup.  To be away from family, friend, work, my own bathroom.  It was eye-opening.  

And then jump to today. My mother went in this morning for scheduled open heart surgery to correct an overgrowth on her heart wall that was discovered in the last few years.  We have known this was coming and I have taken care of numerous people who have had very similar procedures to this.  I have know medically what this all means for a long time.  But, what I failed to ever find out was what happens when the doctor leaves the room. What does waking up with a tube in your lungs, IVs coming out of your neck and arms, drainage tubes and wires coming out of your chest, and a catheter in your bladder mean to someone who just had their sternum cracked open and then sewn shut?  What does being totally completely naked (no supportive apparati like glasses or underwear) in a strange room with all new faces while being in significant pain feel like?  What do families worry about, have questions about?  What do patients and families need to hear?  

I am very lucky to know what I know.  Walking into Mom's recovery room today was not nearly as jarring or scary to me as I'm sure it would have been to most people.  Somehow, I can see beyond all those tubes and wires and monitors and know that, assuming all goes as planned, she will very quickly return to the fully functional (and hopefully much improved) woman I have always known her to be.  But there is also an element of me that kind of yearns to just be a layperson.  I intentionally didn't tell any of the staff I am an MD but, in a strange way, we are hard to stay hidden for long.  And the tone changed when they discovered my secret. Not in a perceptible way to probably even my brother who was in the room but enough that I realized I was changing the environment just with my presence. For the better?  Probably.  I'd at least like to think so.  And anything that gets my mother that extra boost to recovery, the better.  But I find it difficult to be just a doctor or just a patient and so I end up in this very strange gray zone that is altogether uncomfortable in a lot of ways.  I know exactly what to say to get medical personnel to respond but I also know exactly what to say to get medical personnel to respond.  I liken it to that scene in Bruce Almighty when Jim Carrey's character has to take over for God for a day and just grants everyones' prayers.  All hell breaks loose and he very quickly realizes having everything the way you want it isn't always the way that works out the best.  

There is a reason why physicians should not treat their family members or themselves because we lose objectivity and can start to want everything to be perfect when we all know perfection is rare and often a sign of ignorance.  So I struggle with what I should say or not say and that makes me knowledgeable but powerless and with a very large stake in the game.  It is altogether an uncomfortable place to be.

Not nearly as uncomfortable as my sweet Momma today who has been a fantastic patient and truly the type of woman I would love to treat, if it weren't for her being the person who created me and all. We are not out of the woods yet, but the most uncertain part is largely over and now we're getting down to the business of healing, which is largely uncharted territory for me and some pretty darn good CME (Continuing Medical Education).  

Pure Drama

Never, ever underestimate the incredible dramatic effect of the phrase "And Then....":

Jack reading a story to Sissy, August 12, 2012

"And then.. the kitty kat ran away..."

And then... the kitty kat ran away!"

And everybody stand in line to wait for Momma's chocolate chip cookies..

The End!"

That was a Great Story

Dean-O vs. Bugzilla

Faithful Dean-dog confronts a puzzling yet entertaining cicada...

Terrible Twos..

We all gathered in Spartanburg to celebrate my darling baby girl's Second Birthday, whereupon we were beset on all sides by pink and purple princess paraphenalia. Caroline was in top form, pursing her lips and grinning coyly, handing out hugs and kisses with cheerful abandon, and generally playing the part of royalty. Which she seemed to enjoy immensely. A crown, a pocketbook full of makeup and a cell phone, a cash register for imaginary shopping, clothes and dolls and books and cake - what else could a little girl ask for?

I keep looking at this picture of her, with her "I am Two" t-shirt and her purse, and her remarkable little smile, stealing ice out of someone's glass while I snap another photo. I really have to grin because I feel like I can start to see the young lady she is going to become. A little bit of sass with a sparkly-eyed grin, excitement bubbling over the "I've got this under control" demeanor.

I suppose it is cute right now how excited she is about becoming a big girl, but I am pretty sure I am not fully prepared for all that is to come. I know they say that two-year olds are terrible, but I right now I think that the terrified one is me..

 

What happens to monkey grass when no one is watching the kids....

For The Record

This has more or less become our baby book of sorts, as we keep track of the coming and growings of each of three precious young'uns. We've still got the hard copy, what with the locks of hair and the pre-formatted questionnaires. But when we look back over the life we've charted, we keep coming back to this blog, and it really does capture a lot of what we've lived through the last 3 or so years. We need to be blogging more, and have gotten a little off track of late, so here is a post of what everyone is up to, just for the record:

Jack a/k/a Jackson David Shaw a/k/a Baby Captain:

This guy is just getting bigger and older and more incredible by the day. Looking back at videos tonight from 2010, it is amazing how much he has matured. He has taken on the role of big brother (for both Caroline and Sam) with a seriousness that belies his tender-hearted nature. Right now, he is 100% into imaginary play, dreaming up elaborate scenarios at every turn, mostly involving friends from school, alligators, sharks, lava, and his Carolina Blue office that he painted in "35 minutes, front and back,"
 where he likes to go work to "make money" and/or "get ice cream."

He is still snuggly and affectionate, and has latched onto the automatic gratification associated with saying things like "you have beautiful hair today, Mommy" and "I like your pretty eyes!" He also has a little bit of an attitude, but is mainly limited to saying "Fine" and "You're not my best friend anymore." He will also parrot any complete sentence he hears from anyone that might possibly be construed as clever, funny, or naughty.

Caroline a/k/a Princess a/k/a Sissy:

This little girl has become the most affectionate fireball you could imagine, alternating frequently from body-slams to ear-holding two-cheeked Euro-style kisses (which Dean particularly enjoys). Her most recent acquisition is the favorite color of PurplePink (or sometimes (PinkPurple). She also has begun to self-identify as a Princess, and as he language skills have blossomed in the last month or so, her ominous brow ridge and accompanying frown have retreated significantly.

Still, it is clear that curiosity will one day kill the cat (Meeeee-ooowwwww), and Caroline is a archetype of that mantra. If it is hot, wired, submerged, or fanged, Caroline wants to touch it. Hug it. Pinch its ears. So far, the only things that have fazed her are Cows and Flies, both of which she appears to be deathly afraid of. Seriously - one encounter with the guy in the cow costume at Chik-fil-A on Friday, and we have heard no less than 1000 times this weekend: "No cows, afraid of cows. I'm a princess." Even Superman had Kryptonite, I guess.


Samuel a/k/a Baby Sam a/k/a Winston a/k/a Piglet:

A sweeter happier baby was never born. As much as we love the other two (now) this one's manners at 3 months are above reproach. He eats well, sleeps well, smiles sweetly on cue, gurgles and coos with reckless pleasure. Once he starts doing more than just lay there and smile, we'll let you know!

Our current favorite phrases (with translations)

Jackson:
"I missed you today, Mommy."
"I need to go to my office that I painted Carolina Blue and work."
"Fine, you're not my best friend anymore."
"Come sit with me, you're my best friend now."

Caroline:
"Whas dat right dehr?" = What is that right there?
"Pink one, Purple one" = My favorite colors are pink and purple
"I princess. No cows." = I'm a princess and because of that, I request all cows be banished. I am very scared of cows.
"Boo, Daddy"

Sam:
Well, he isn't talking obviously except for insane amounts of happy babbling and laughter.  This kid is an angel baby.

And, just for the record, we are now very used to (and happy with) having three kids. There is never a dull (or quiet) moment around here.

Our newest thumbsucker

Way to go, Sam!

The funny papers

Jackson read the funny papers (upside down) for 30 minutes today. Strangely, he managed to discern most of what was happening in them.