Isn't it Ironic, Part II

So my friend Heidi tipped me off to the following, which suits my purpose much better than the essay below and makes me blush a little at having declared some items ironic in the last post that were not actually ironic. Irony really is something you just sense, rather than know, and all the improved situations down there are truly ironic. I love it. And you, Patrick Cassels.

Lines From Alanis Morissette's "Ironic," Modified to Actually Make them Ironic

by Patrick Cassels December 26, 2006

An old man turned ninety-eight. He won the lottery and died the next day... of chronic emphysema from inhalation of the latex particles scratched off decades' worth of lottery tickets.

A black fly in your Chardonnay... poured to celebrate the successful fumigation of your recently purchased vineyard in southern France.

A death row pardon two minutes too late... because the governor was too busy watching Dead Man Walking to grant clemency any earlier.

Rain on your wedding day... to Ra, the Egyptian sun-god.

A free ride when you've already paid... all of your money to the good-natured cab driver when you mistook him for a mugger.

The good advice that you just didn't take... after reading Norman Vincent Peale's The Power of Positive Thinking and resolving that the key to success is making your own decisions.

Mr. Play-it-Safe was afraid to fly. He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye. He waited his whole damn life to take that flight. And as the plane crashed down, he thought, Well isn't this nice... now I'll never make it to the National Association of Aviophobics conference in Reno, NV.

A traffic jam when you're already late... to receive an award from the Municipal Planning Board for reducing the city's automobile congestion 80 percent.

A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break... at the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco corporate offices in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

Ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife... with which to kill your spouse for sleeping with the young soup chef who works at the Au Bon Pain.

Meeting the man of my dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife... who happens to be the psychiatrist I recently hired in hopes of improving my luck with the opposite sex.

Isn't it ironic?

"Well, life has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you think everything's okay and everything's going right. And life has a funny way of helping you out when you think everything's gone wrong."
- Alanis Morisette, "Ironic"

My 11th-grade Honors English teacher opened class discussion one day with a question: "What is irony?"

A blond girl sitting on the front row immediately shot her hand into the air. "It's, like, you know, rain on your wedding day," the girl said. "It's, like, you know, something not good that you didn't really expect." The teacher, in response, paused just a little too long, blinked several times, made a non-committal murmur, and called on someone else: a boy on the back row with a reputation of reading during his free time.

I write this not to be critical of my classmate: irony is a difficult thing to articulate, but rather, I would like to take this opportunity to criticize the source of the girl's confusion: the song "Ironic," by Alanis Morisette. Thanks to "Ironic," a generation of pop-culture consumers have now concluded that ironic and surprisingly unfortunate are synonyms. Given my eleventh-grade classmate's definition of irony, as based on what she had learned listening by to Jagged Little Pill on continuous repeat for weeks on end, the following things could be considered ironic: Tornadoes. Tipping over a glass of milk. A flat tire. Drive-by shootings. Saran wrap stretched over the toilet bowl. Stubbing your toe. Diarrhea.

I love Alanis. Don't get me wrong. If it weren't for the song "You Outta Know" I may not have made it alive out of a devastating breakup at age 19. I was more than a little bummed when Alanis found inner peace and happiness and stopped producing her satisfyingly angst-laden albums. But every time I hear the song "Ironic" playing on the radio, I have the urge to reach in through the speakers and give the woman a good shaking. The worst thing about "Ironic" is that some of the situations described in the song are ironic and others are not. Were she even simply consistently wrong about irony, it might be easier to cast aside the whole song as a bunch of literarily incorrect nonsense-- but because the song contains some bonafide ironic moments, listeners get all confused and start thinking it's all irony, which, as I will show below, it is not.

So let me make this clear: Rain on one's wedding day is not necessarily ironic, neither is good advice that you just didn't take, nor is a free ride when you've already paid. And because I am an excessively nerdy person, and to help clear up any 1990s-induced confusion that might still be lingering in my own mind and among the minds of you, my faithful readers, I have analyzed each situation laid out in the song and assessed it for ironic content. So, without further ado, I will lay before you the fruits of my inner strangeness.

1) An old man turned 98. He won the lottery, and died the next day. My assessment: unfortunate, but not ironic. Ironic if the old man had spent his whole life saying, "When I win the lottery, I'll do this and this and this and be happy, but until then, I'll just plug along in my own meaningless, boring cesspool of a life." And he finally won the lottery-- but by then it was too late to redeem the wasted moments, days, and years that he had passed waiting for blind luck to change his fortune.

2) Rain on your wedding day. Unfortunate, but not ironic. Unless, perhaps, you (the person getting married) are a haughty meteorologist who predicted a sunny day.

3) A free ride when you've already paid. Unfortunate. Irony might be introduced into the situation if there had been some struggle preceding the payment for a ride, a pride conflict that ended with someone finally submitting that they were wrong, there were no free rides, and laying down the payment, only to have a free ride arrive just moments later.

4) A black fly in your chardonnay. Gross. Ironic if someone has just finished lecturing about the cleanliness of the establishment at which the chardonnay was served.

5) A death row pardon two minutes too late. Ding, ding, ding! Irony.

6) Mr. Play-it-Safe was afraid to fly. He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye. He waited his whole damn life just to take this flight and as the plane crashed down, he thought, "Well, isn't this nice." This one is my favorite. Not only because the situation is ironic but also because of the verbal irony inserted at the end.

7) A traffic jam when you're already late. Frustrating, but not ironic. Unless you're the engineer who planned the traffic lights.

8) A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break. Ironic!

9) Ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife. Ironic!

10) Meeting the man of my dreams...and then meeting his beautiful wife. Oh, the irony.

So what is irony? I'll tell you: I don't know. Like romance, irony is difficult to describe and will be defined differently by different people. I could be wrong in my assessments of the irony in the above-described circumstances. But just as there are some things that are decidedly unromantic (farting), there are some things that are decidedly not ironic (rain on one's wedding day)-- and I have taken it upon myself to stop people from calling farts romantic and rain ironic.

Liam Update: April 2010

Liam, as you all know, has finally launched himself into the world of mobility. He is relatively laid-back about his movements, however-- even though he can drag himself anywhere his whimsy draws him, I don't feel that everything in the home is in danger of either being utterly destroyed by (or utterly destroying) my new little quadruped. Here's a little of what's been going on with our little angelito.

Here he is, grinning at Daddy from his walker in the kitchen. He loves his daddy; in fact, I'm pretty sure that when he says "dad" he knows that it signifies the nice man who takes care of him in mommy's absence.

Examining the camera lens. Liam is very scientific in his approach to life, cautiously exploring everything he encounters. He spent a lot of time playing with the shadow of his hand in a sunbeam one morning. He loves to try things over and over again: "If I do this, what will happen? Will it happen again?" He likes to do this with Soren, who freaks out and screams every time Liam touches him. One morning I was holding both my boys in my lap and Liam reached over and very softly touched Soren's arm. "OUCH!" screamed Soren. Liam laughed, then did it again. "OUCH!!" Liam laughed some more, then tried touching him a little more firmly. Soren started wailing, so Liam, still amused, started touching him more. It was all I could do to keep from laughing myself.

Smiling at Mommy's fascinating rending of "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes." Liam loves being sung to and really loves watching dancing. Auntie Hillary tells me that he laughs and laughs when she belly dances for him in the kitchen.

Engaging in some sort of exciting game with Daddy's weighted medicine balls. Here's another funny Soren/Liam story: Liam and Soren were playing with blocks together in the front room. The adults of the household were enjoying this rare moment of brotherly peace, so we were in the kitchen eating dinner. Soren ran in to make sure I was still there, and after a few minutes, I told him we should go check on Liam. Liam, in Soren's absence, had crawled over to Soren's toy train and was examining it. When he looked up and saw Soren, however, he startled-- and started to grab at another nearby toy. I could practically hear him saying, "I wasn't playing with your toy! No siree! Not me! I was just sitting here looking at this....um...at this here block! Yup! That's what I was doing all the while!"

All that drag-crawling is exhausting!

Liam has a fantastic fake cheesy grin.

I always put Liam in bed with daddy before I leave for work in the morning. Liam LOVES having a grown-up to cuddle with at sleepy time.

Enjoying a piece of Soren's "Diego" puzzle.

Getting a leg up on his crawling skills. (Heh heh.)

Liam's been big on throwing stuff lately. Anything within reach, he'll pick up and hurl, like the Duplos above.

Liam is a quirky little guy. He can whistle a little. He also enjoys rocking himself back and forth vigorously, shaking his head compulsively, and thoroughly examining the carpet. We've been able to get him to eat a little more solid food throughout the past month, but it's scary to give him anything too chunky because he'll put a bite of food in his mouth and then start rocking hard against his high chair. He was doing this one evening and I asked him, "Liam? Do you WANT to choke on that?" Liam paused, looked at me, blinked three times, and then returned to hurling himself against the hard plastic seat back.

Liam is still our little sunbeam. He has a light in his eyes that literally shines. He is a marvelously sweet and calm child-- except at night when he wakes up instantly furious that a bottle hasn't already been brought to him. He'll scream with all the fervor of his being until the sweet liquid refreshment has been put to his lips. In just minutes, his little face will have grown splotchy from the exertion of all that screaming, but he'll be able to shut off his rage instantly after his bottle has been brought to him.

Liam's best friend, Bahbah. I finally weaned him this month. so he's really taken a shine to his bottle.

Hypnotizin' Those Babies

So even if all that prenatal Hypnobabies practice didn't help me have a drug-free delivery, it seems to have made an impact on Liam. Look at him working that hypnotizin' groove on his pappy.

My Birthday Present from Liam

On the evening of my birthday (it was very lovely, thank you), Abraham and I were playing "Pass the Pigs" on a book of nursery rhymes on the living room floor. Liam really, really wanted to get his chubby little paws on those chubby little pigs, and it ultimately turned into his first official crawling experience.

Also, I cannot believe how long it takes to upload videos. Gee Willakers.

Book Reviews

So, yo, I'm supposed to be doing dishes, folding laundry, and paying bills, but I haven't posted in a while, so I'm going to rebel for a minute and review some books.

Gravity vs. the Girl
by Riley Noehren

My darling friend Holly, whose blog I would link you to except that it's one of those gosh-awful secrety ones, loaned me this book. It was actually authored by one of her former college-roommates, which makes me feel all famous somehow, particularly since it was a good book: well-written, well-crafted, funny, insightful. Gravity vs. the Girl is the story of Samantha Green, a young, attractive, single attorney who, after quitting her job and spending a lonely year wearing PJs in her Seattle condo, is awakened by the ghost of her six-year-old self, who makes her get out of bed. The six-year-old is soon joined by more ghosts: Samantha the teen, Samantha the college student, and Samantha the attorney, who follow around the living, breathing Samantha and, between their own quibbles with each other, help her find her footing again. It sounds weird, but I promise...it's a sheer delight.

How Children Learn
by John Holt

John Holt, in case you didn't know, was an educational philosopher whose ideas and thinking help support the concept of "unschooling." Holt was a brilliant individual who cared deeply about learning and children. After teaching in private schools for many years, Holt began working to reform the contemporary educational system. Holt ultimately decided that schools couldn't be reformed into the places of learning he had once imagined and, during his later years, he began putting his energies into encouraging child-directed homeschooling. But anyway, How Children Learn is one of Holt's earlier works, and it is a charming book-- describing, in a sweetly simple way, his observations of children learning and growing. Because I had already been doing quite a bit of reading about "unschooling" philosophy, this book didn't take me by storm the way I've heard it's done for some people; however, I do intend to read more of his works. Next on my list: Instead of Education: Ways to Help People Do Things Better.

The Lilac Bus
by Maeve Binchy

Maeve Binchy is like an Irish Anne Tyler: her writing highlights the drama in simple, everyday lives in a very charming way. The Lilac Bus tells the story of several people who travel every weekend from Dublin to their small hometown on the same lilac-colored minibus. Each chapter is an exploration of the lives and feelings and experiences of each individual on the bus. Each section is crafted enough to stand alone as a short story-- but putting them together adds another layer of delight, because it is fun to observe how the others' perceptions of each other differ from reality, how everyone's dramas run quietly parallel while they share such close quarters, and how the stories connect in unexpected places. A lovely read.

Nineteen Minutes
by Jodi Picoult

This isn't my favorite Jodi Picoult novel. It was uber-depressing, the story of a small town that's turned upside-down when an angry kid shoots up the local high school and kills a bunch of students. As is protocol with Jodi Picoult's books, the story was told from the perspective of a variety of people involved with the shooting: a shooting survivor, the defense attorney, a judge, the detective, one of the survivors' mothers, the offender's parents. I didn't particularly like the book, but I read it from start to finish because the way she writes books (kind of backwards, in a way-- starting at the end and then slowly unfolding the back story) keeps me interested. I wanted to know what had happened to motivate the kid to do such a horrible thing. And I knew that there would be some sort of twist-- and I wanted to know what the twist was. So I read it all. And there was a good twist. But I don't know that I would recommend it. It contained a lot of fairly graphic teen sexuality and some pretty foul language. I'm not usually too terribly prudish when it comes to these things, but a lot of the content of the book make me a little uncomfortable. Try another of her novels before you pick up this one.

Princess

by Jean Sasson

This, however, I would recommend. Princess is the memoir of a Saudi-Arabian princess, as shared with an American friend in the early nineteen nineties. By sharing the story of her life, Sultana (her pseudonym) provides a glimpse into the struggles and experiences of women who live within a culture where females are often devalued and exploited. There are a lot of heart-sickening anecdotes describing the ways in which wives, daughters, and servants are abused and misused by the men who have been given power over them. Reading this book made me so grateful to be an American-- and also made me want to go fight for women's rights in the Middle and Near East.

Bedtime

There's something ridiculously cute about a little kid at bedtime. Maybe it's because at bedtime you can see the finish line directly ahead and, being thus freed from worrying about how much more your exhausted spirit will be able to endure, you can more fully appreciate the sweetness of your children. But then again, maybe it's just that there's something naturally heart-warming about little people padding around in fuzzie feetie jammies, gigantically round glazed eyes, insane overtired giggles, the smell of slightly damp, freshly washed hair.

Our family's evening routine is a well-worn path. Every night is pretty much the same: after dinner and bath time (if it's a bath night), Mommy declares that it is time for jammies and teeth brushing. Soren generally freaks out at this prospect, screaming that he's "'gared of lions" and/or that he "can't sleep." While one parent chases Soren around with his jammies and forces him into a diaper change, the other changes the ever-placid William. Then the Designated Soren Parent supervises tooth brushing ("supervision" ranging anywhere from offering a quick follow-up brushing to hosting a full-bore hold-'im-down-and-scrub-'is-teeth-while-he-screams wrestling match). The tooth brushing event is followed by "Song Prayer," wherein--surprise!--a song is sung and a prayer is said. (As an aside, Soren's prayers usually go like this: "Dearheavenwyfawther, Bissbissbiss, bissbissbissfood, NameajesuskystAAAAMEN." Also, Soren prays every night, often multiple times in a row, whether or not it is his turn, and regardless of whether someone else is simultaneously saying the official prayer). After Song Prayer, Daddy takes Liam downstairs, where he reads the news online with the little chubster flailing around on his lap. Chubby's movements gradually slow down, his eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and pretty soon his head is tilted loosely against his shoulder and he's breathing loud and heavy. Meanwhile, upstairs, Mommy and Soren have moved to Soren's bedroom.

Tonight Soren came to bed with his big dump truck (Sting), his little dump truck (Shwann), and two large foam letters: B (for big) and F (for ferocious). I had told him that B and F would protect him from those scary lions; the dump trucks were his own random addition to the Lion Protection Crew. We settled down on a pillow and blanket laid out in front of the door, as the child flat-out refuses to sleep in his bed, and I told him two stories. Tonight the stories were about Sting and Shwann, the big and little dump trucks. In the first story, Schwann got very sick and Sting worked extra hard to help Schwann carry his load of dirt at the construction site. In the second story, Schwann turned up missing and Sting searched everywhere for him, only to find that Shwann had fallen asleep under his bed at home. After two stories, Soren and I and Shwann and Sting moved to the rocking chair, where I told Soren he could have one more story and one more song and then it would be time to sleep. When I mentioned sleep, Soren immediately asserted, "But I'm 'gared!" "Soren," I reminded him, "You have B and F and Schwann and Sting. There is nothing in the world to be scared of!" "Oh, yeah!" replied Soren, and he settled against me for another story. In this story, Shwann and Sting helped Soren bring home a pot of gold so that Mommy and Daddy could pay off the mortgage and their student loans. At the end of the song, Soren said, "Now I want a song!" I asked him what song he would like to sing, and he said, "A song about me!" So I sang "Soren once was a little child," set to the tune of "Jesus once was a little child." (As I sang this, I pondered the possibility that this might be some sort of sacrilege, but then decided that "Jesus Once Was a Little Child" was a stupid song anyway and that its message that all children should be "humble and meek and mild" was damaging and that, even if I was desecrating the holy tune, it was an okay holy tune to desecrate.) At the end of his song, I told Soren it was time to climb in bed. "But I'm 'gared!" I reminded him again that Schwann and Sting and B and F had his back. This seemed to bring him comfort, as he climbed off my lap, settled Schwann and Sting and B and F near his pillow, lay down, and allowed me to stack blankets on top of him.

"Oh, sweetie," I said, kissing his warm little cheek, "I love you so very much."

And a little muffled voice came up from under the pillow and twined itself around my heart:
"I wuf you so merry much too, Mommy."

Good night.

A Conversation

Rachel and Abraham are standing in the kitchen after church. Rachel opens a can of tuna fish.

Abraham: Mmmmm...delicious tuna fish smell.

Rachel: I think it's kinda nasty.

Abraham, inhaling deeply: Nonsense! That..that...is the smell of our ancestry.

Rachel simultaneously imagines a fish walking out of the primordial soup and catches a whiff of the tuna. She gags.

The curtain falls.

Black haired woman.

When we got home from church today, Abe took some pictures of Liam in his new suit and I got to get in on the action. I am posting this for two reason: 1) I like my legs, and 2) Ya'll haven't seen my black hair yet, have you?

Liam: 12 Months

Dear Sweet Liam,

It's been quite a year, hasn't it? First you came to our home as a newborn baby, a skinny little creature with a never-ending appetite. And then you had that scary bout with pneumonia, and you were a sick little baby, with tubes in your nose and needles jammed in your head and feet and arms. And now you have grown into our fat little prince, an oversized infant who loves to be carried around like royalty.

And through these long months-- and no, as we've struggled to adjust to the demands of caring for two little people, it hasn't been a short year-- there has been a continual stream of spit-up (though that has finally dissipated!), a lot of yellow poop explosions (these have only increased), a great deal of nursing (we're cutting back on that one), and very little nighttime sleeping. And this has all been okay because-- most importantly-- you have been there through it all: Sweet William, our darling, smiley, cuddly, chubby, sweetly stubborn bundle of goodness and softness and milk and honey.

You are special, my little boy, and you are loved.

Thank you for sharing your year with us.

Love,

Mommy

February 2009

March 2009

April 2009

May 2009

June 2009

July 2009

August 2009

September 2009

October 2009

November 2009

December 2009

January 2010

February 2010

Introducing....Briar Simmons.

Liam's First Birthday

On February 25th, my baby turned one.

We had a party and the usual suspects showed up.

(No, I'm not sure why I'm sneering at Calysta.)

Then we opened gifts:

Hillary and Briar gave him a card,

Grandma and Grandpa Hanson bought him some nice clothes,

Soren helped him figure out his new toy,

and Big Marty offered his protection.

However, Liam's favorite gift was a plastic tag that came on the toy.

Then it was time for cake and ice cream.

Soren eagerly assisted,

and Liam eagerly demolished his own piece, though he (of course) refrained from consuming any of the vile solid substance.

It was a good day.

And they called it cracker love.

Yesterday Liam grabbed a graham cracker off the table during snack time. Mind you, he didn't want to eat said cracker. He just wanted to hold it and look at it. And he held and admired that graham cracker for a very long time. Everything the graham cracker did delighted him. He waved it through the air and laughed. A little chunk broke off in his chubby fist, fell down, and hit him in the eye; he squealed in delight. He held the graham cracker close to his face, he held it far away. He turned it this way and that.

I was putting Soren to bed when Daddy finally took the graham cracker away from him. I heard the screaming and thought that maybe Liam had been dropped and cracked his head open. Then I realized that his heart had been opened by a cracker, then dropped.

I shouldn't be allowed to blog after 10 pm.

The grown-ups.

My life, in a nutshell, goes something like this: Monday through Friday I wake up, take care of the boys, and go to work. I work really hard for eight hours. Then I come home, eat dinner (prepared by Hillary, peace be upon her forever and ever), put the kids to bed, do a little shuffle-cleaning, exercise a little, read a little, giggle with Abe a little, and then crash. I usually wake up twice a night to feed Liam. Then lather, rinse, and repeat. Saturdays involve laundry, errands, a date with Abe, and (if I'm really lucky) mopping and vacuuming. Sundays are swallowed up by church, a blessed nap, and family dinner. Then back to Monday. I'm tired, but generally happy. I love my kids, I love my husband, I love my job. I just wish I could spend more time with all of them. And also, with me.

Abe is keeping busy with the kids and continuing with his master's degree. He's taking web design, library management, and somethingorother else. Nine masters credits is a lot, my friends, believe me. But he copes with it well. Were our roles reversed, I think I would be shredding paper in a corner of the Behavioral Health Center by now, but Abe is good at school. His free time is spent reading technology blogs, the news, and thrillers. He also likes to play computer games.

Liam Update

Little Liam.

Yum Yum (I call him this because that's kind of what his name sounds like when Soren pronounces it) still kind of thinks that he's two months old. At almost twelve months, Liam isn't crawling, scooting, or cruising. He clamps his little lips together at the sight of solid foods. And he hasn't even considered the possibility that he might be able to form words with that sweet little mouth of his. He still squeals and squeaks. This should probably concern me, and it does, a little, but I'm pretty sure he's not so much delayed as he is...content. And stubborn.

My little Liam.

He is a bundle of smiles and sweetness that can fill a person from top to bottom with the golden warmth of a sunny day and a dripping honeycomb. He is warm and squishy and smells like milk and baby lotion. He has sweet pillow cheeks and there is something about kissing his little head-- oh my goodness, his sweet fuzzy knobby little head!--that makes me want to bottle him up and keep him this little forever.

Soren Update

Soren is Soren. He's just so very....Soreny. There's really no one in the world like him, I'm pretty sure. Approximately 50 times a day he asks me what my name is. Considering that I'm only home for, like, 4 hours a day, that's a lot. Frequently I'll say something like, "My name is Jemimah Louisa Alexander," and he'll be like, "No it's not! It's Mommy Kafween Skousen!"

A week or two after Christmas, Soren asked me if I thought that I might get a p**** (name of body part omitted for internet safety) for Christmas next year. He seems to feel sorry that I'm the only one in the family without one of of those particular body parts. (Just for the record, however, I do not feel one ounce of sorrow for this particular lack, Freud's crazy theories notwithstanding.)

Also, once when I was rocking him with my eyes closed, he shoved his face right into my face and whispered loudly, "Wake up! It's Scrisscruss!" ("Scrisscruss" being his pronunciation of "Christmas." "Scrisscruss orbins" means "Christmas ornaments.)

Soren has become very imaginative lately. He's always conjuring up imaginary friends and bringing them places with us. One morning last week, for example, he informed me that a very nice rooster had kept him safe last night. He invited the rooster and his mommy to breakfast, and we had a very nice conversation. He also had the following exchange with his daddy last week:

Soren: "Daddy, you a balloon."
Daddy: "Uh oh! You popped me."
Soren: "I put you in the garbage."
Daddy: "If you put me in the garbage, I'll get taken away by the garbage truck. Then you'll never see me again."
Soren, after thinking for a moment: "That's okay. Hillwy give me hugs."

He fell on the kitchen floor last week and hurt his face. A short while later he came back and put some duct tape on the spot where he had fallen because he was worried his fall had hurt the floor.

Soren also has a penchant for mitten-wearing. His favorite thing to do is put, like, five mittens on one hand and keep the other one bare. Like a preschool version of Michael Jackson.

He says "Oh! Thank you" a lot. Gratitude is one of his strengths.

If he wants something I have, sometimes he'll ask, "Mommy? Are you a sharing girl?"

He calls Kleenexes "buggy napkins."

He took his toy shopping cart to the grocery store with Abraham and me the other evening. He pushed it right through those automatic doors, strutted up to the cookie table, confidently plopped a box of cookies into his cart, walked on, and grabbed for another box of cookies. It was ADORABLE to see him walking through the store with his tiny little cart. Everyone was gushing about what a cute little helper he was. In the end, he ended up pushing his cart through the checkout line, where he hoisted a box of graham crackers, a bottle of cough syrup, and (yes) a package of cookies up over his head and onto the conveyor belt. The cashier thought he was so cute she gave him a balloon. The woman clearly has good taste.