Lord, how I want to be in that number...

I know it's been a few days, but the euphoria hasn't quite died down. Sunday night was spent with friends celebrating a long-awaited win. Post game celebrations included champagne, tequila shots, (I passed) and dancing on a legendary coffee table.

Good times.

"Who Dat!"

Night-night...

When I put Sam to bed, we read, and sometimes I'll rock him and sing to him. I usually sing "Baby Mine." You know--the song Dumbo's mom sings to him? Anthony says the song is depressing, but I disagree. Sometimes I'll throw in some Beatles--Sam really likes "Michelle."

What does Anthony sing to his son? Well, I didn't know he ever sang to Sam until last night. Anthony's nighttime musical choices include "Hail State" (no surprise there) and the wonderful, lyrically superior, "Friends In Low Places" by Garth Brooks. I guess Sam wants to dream about beer chasing his blues away.

You're a fickle woman, January...

I mean, really? A few weeks ago, this place was waaaayyyy too cold to qualify as Mississippi. I don't know about the rest of you, but lows in the teens do not make me happy. There's a reason I live here and not in Wisconsin. I can deal with sweltering summer days, horrible literacy rates, and off-the-charts-obesity, but I cannot deal with cold weather. After Christmas is over, all cold weather should end...just my humble opinion. And last night? Hail, thunderstorms, and tornado sirens. No, thank you.

Today? Beautiful. Gorgeous. I have on shorts and a t-shirt for crying out loud, and I am a seriously cold-natured person. It feels like baseball weather. And crawfish weather. Sitting out on a porch having drinks weather. But I'm on to you, January. I know how you operate. You'll lull me into a false sense of spring, then crush my soul with another cold spell. Probably like the one they're predicting next week. Blah.

Speaking of obesity rates, yours truly is working on losing what I like to call my "Christmas weight." I've actually been exercising the past few weeks, and if you know me, you know that it's a huge deal. "Bikini Season" is just around the corner, and I'd like to lounge around the pool with my head held high. We'll see how long it takes me to fall off the wagon. I went to my first spin class last Monday. Um... nobody told me that it would be really uncomfortable. I honestly don't know how men can stand it. I have a whole new respect for those bikes.

As I type, my child is still fighting the nap that he's supposed to take for his well-being and my sanity. He keeps yelling my name hoping that I'll come save him. It's a battle of wills, and I'm still not sure which one of us is going to win. Pray for me.

Your mama's going to bring you uptown...

I must say, Anthony and I are really fortunate when it comes to having friends. We've got a great group here in the capital city, and they definitely know how to have a good time. Yesterday we loaded up the car with plenty of tailgating food and headed to a friend's house to watch our MSU bulldogs and the New Orleans Saints. Separate games, of course.

I won't act as if I'm some lifelong Saints fan, but my grandfather always pulled for them--he was a sucker for underdogs--and Anthony has always liked them. I think my allegiance truly started post-Katrina. How could you not pull for a team whose hometown needed hope and revitalization as much as New Orleans did? Watching them come out of the tunnel for that first game back was something else, and I was sold. We've been pretty darn loyal ever since. Our posse went down for the Saints vs. Giants game earlier this year, and we had a blast. Anyway, we gathered our small version of the Who Dat Nation, ate lots of food, and pulled the black-and-gold through.

Once the win was clinched, we celebrated. And what better way to celebrate than pushing furniture out of the way and making a dance floor? This is usually our favorite way to spend a weekend night, and it makes me feel like I'm working off some of the calories I've inhaled during the day...a win-win situation. Last night's dance party was kicked off with a selection of some good, old-school country tunes. Good God, I'd forgotten how much I love Reba. When "Fancy" came on, I think every girl there knew the words. The song is pure poetry, I'm telling you. The lady knows how to tell a good white-trash story. Throw in some Brooks and Dunn and Kenny Chesney, and the night was golden.

"And that's the night the lights went out in Georgia."

Really?

Last night I went out to dinner with some friends. Sam stayed home with his daddy, who usually does an excellent job of chasing his son. Usually.

This morning Sam woke up, and Anthony brought him to our room. He had on the same outfit from yesterday, the same diaper from 5:45 yesterday, (which was soaked) and his tennis shoes.

"Anthony, why does Sam have on his shoes?"

"I don't know. I guess I forgot to take them off."

The kid slept in his sneakers.

I guess next time I'll need to remind him to remove the child's shoes before putting Sam to bed. It was a rough night for daddy, that's for sure.

Puff Daddy to P. Diddy...

Prince, to "The Artist Formerly Known as Prince," then back to Prince.

What am I talking about?

Name changing.

When I first found out I was pregnant with Sam, the grandparents began concentrating on the super-important-life-or-death task of.....deciding what they would be called.

For my father, he decided on "Grandy."
My mother decided to be "Mimi," which is what we called her mother.
My father-in-law picked out "Papa" as his moniker.

My mother-in-law? Well, she wavered. A lot. It's been a running joke for a while now. After many sleepless nights, she settled on "Gammy." We have referred to her as "Gammy" for the past 20 months, but it appears that we will have one final name change. Sam has a pretty big vocabulary, and I realize that sounds like bragging, which I guess it is, but whatever. This is my blog, so I can brag all I want. Anyway, he can say/recognize a ton of different words, but he absolutely refuses to say "Gammy." (He won't say "Mimi," either--we're working on it, Mom.)

This is where some Lebanese background info is needed. The Lebanese word for grandmother is "Siti." I have no idea how it's spelled because I always see different variations. Anthony and I thought it'd be a great grandmother name, but MP wasn't so sure. (She was worried that he might call her something like "Siti" but with the "Sh" sound. You get my drift.) Last week we asked Sam if he could say "Siti." He smiled and said, "Sissy." If you ask him her name, he responds with "Sissy." I am so glad that we have a solidified name after almost 30 months of debate. The entire family can rest easy.

Now we just have to figure out what he wants to call my mother. Sigh.

In other news, Sam hit a bunch of buttons on the remote and almost bought some really dirty movies on pay-per-view. That would have been really fun to explain to the husband.