For Caleb, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. He knew I'd be home this morning, so he decided to lobby God during last night's bedtime prayers:

"...and Lord, thank you for all the wonderful things you give us..."

"And please give us eggs, and bacon..."

"...thank you for our home, and our family..."

"...and pancakes, with syrup..."

"...and for my job, and for your love for us..."

"...and cranapple juice, and we can eat it when we get up..."

"...please forgive us, Lord, when we are selfish..."

"...and give us a g-o-o-o-o-o-d breakfast tomorrow. A-a-a-a-men."

I'm sure the good Lord has heard worse prayers.

Recent Caleb song (to the tune of Frere Jacques)

Are you sleeping
Are you sleeping
Stephen Caleb?
Stephen Caleb?
Power power power
Power power power
God Amen
God Amen

Eli can now eat with a spoon, though he clearly detests this artifice, and thinks we are all idiots for forsaking one of nature's greatest food-eating tools, the hand. At every meal now he makes a point of flipping some of his food onto the floor out of spite.

He likes to play "Hide My Face." This amounts to saying "Ah goo!" and then flopping forward to bury his face into some large object, like a pillow. You should try it. As you might imagine, this has entailed some painful lessons about the relative hardness of things. A typical game of "Hide My Face" goes something like this:

"Ah goo!" Plants face on cushion of footstool for five seconds. Looks up. "Heh heh." Cruises a little closer to my place on the couch. "Ah goo!" Buries face in couch cushion for five seconds. Looks up. "Heh heh." Takes hold of my leg. "Ah goo!" Plants nose squarely on my knee. Takes two seconds to realize that this hurts. Looks up at me as if I've deliberately pulled a Thai-boxing move on him, and bursts into tears of pain and betrayal. I feel bad though I didn't do anything wrong. Game is officially over.

Techie guy (How do I know? He's got a Star Trek book and a copy of "Wired." That's right, I judge. You got a problem with that?) is sitting across from me. I mean right now, as I type this into my laptop. Every few seconds he digs into one of his ears, then extracts his finger and not only looks at what he's retrieved, but examines it, all up close and personal, like a biologist in the field. Then he rubs his finger against his thumb so that it crumbles up and rolls off onto the seat beside him.

Oh dear Lord, he just did it again. I feel nauseous. Keep that ear cheese to yourself, Scotty.