Two Stories, One Explanation, and A Movie

So, Kristi and I frequently make a weekend pilgrimage to her parents' house in South Jordan to visit, spend time with family, enhance our social lives, etc.  On one such pilgrimage, we were able to stay overnight thanks to a friend letting us borrow a pack and play.  We put Asher down to bed at the usual time in Carina's room, which also happens to be the home of Gary's drumset.  Because of the great windows in the room, we covered the pack and play with a big pink blanket, which made it look kind of like a giant pink tiger cage.  

Kristi and I frollicked out of the bedroom after he was down, free for a few hours from the responsibilities of parenthood, and went about the house doing as we pleased.  Siblings came home and scattered to their separate activities.  

And then I heard drums.  After one of those pregnant moments where time slows and you can't react as quickly to emergency situations, like the time my brother caught on fire, I remembered something: 

Drumset-playing teenager + sleeping burrito five feet away = disturbance of parental free time!

Ok, so really I thought it would wake him up and be very disturbing.  Kristi flew down the stairs to accost Gary while the rest of us waited upstairs.  "Did you hear the drums?" Dionne asked me as we stood in the kitchen.  "Yeah, Kristi went down there to rip Gary's fingernails off so he remembers not to play the drums in rooms with sleeping infants."  

The drums stopped.  After a few moments, Kristi came upstairs.  "He didn't wake up." Apparently, he didn't move.  Amazing.  

In other Spackman news, I experienced my own burrito explosion this week.  I was in a semi-recumbent position playing with Asher while Kristi went to the grocery store, and he exploded.  Baby goop puddled on my shirt and started to seep through my clothing.  Asher couldn't be put down because he was messy everywhere, so I didn't have the use of either of my hands, and if I stood up the puddle would get all over our carpet.  So, I used the clean part of his already dirty onesie to soak up some of the puddle, moved to the bathroom, put him in the tub, and was able to take care of everything.  Parenting is an adventure.  

Since some of you may think it strange to call one's firstborn "the burrito," an explanation is in order.  While we were dating, some friends had their first child, a cute, now 3 year old named Adelaide.  (Did you know the name Heidi is short for Adelaide?).  One day, in the entrance to BYU's library, I ran into them and said, "So this is her?"  Chad, Adelaide's dad, said "This is her, our little burrito."  From then on, Kristi and I called Adelaide the burrito.  Then, when Kristi and I got pregnant and couldn't think of a name, instead of talking about our little piece of sunshine or daddy's future pride and joy, we talked about The Burrito.  Thus is the etymology of Asher's moniker.  

Asher rolled over this week!  Kristi saw him do it one day, but thought it might be a fluke.  The second day he rolled over, she told me again, and I immediately got out the camera to get some video.  (What is it with fathers and video cameras?).  He rolled over three times in a row!  You can see his first, and best take, at the bottom of the page.  He smiled after rolling in self-satisfaction.  

Well, that's about it.  Our summer is pretty relaxed.  I go to work between eight and nine hours a day, Kristi keeps our son alive and tries to keep the house clean despite my involuntary efforts to the contrary, and life is good.