And the award goes to...

What's that, Tyf? You did what? No, no, this must be a bad connection. It almost sounds like you said you LOCKED YOUR BEAUTIFUL BABY IN THE CAR. I know that can't be right. Unless, of course, you're going for ... Mother of the Year!

It's been whispered, it's been gossiped about, and at long last the big awards day has arrived. The competition was fierce but Tyf, only in her third month of motherhood, has edged out in front of all other contenders. The "Mother of the Year" award goes to Tyfany!!!

Before y'all start looking up the number for CPS, let me explain...

It all begins with the stinkin' Social Security Administration. That's right, you know who you are. Apparently, one must have a social security card to not be kicked out of this great nation. Or at least not heavily fined by the pesky IRS. And so, it only took one threatening letter to get me to finally get around to legally changing my name. You know, from three and a half years ago when Billy and I got married. Whatev. As Erin Crockett at UT will attest to, I tried on three separate occasions to change my name when we still lived in Austin. It's not my fault that I didn't have eight months of my life to sacrifice to standing in line.

Moving on, Tuesday morning I drove myself and sweet Kiernan downtown to get a new social security card. I found a parking spot and started to pile all Kiernan's accessories out of the car. Seriously, the days of traveling lightly are *so* over. That kid never goes anywhere without at least three days worth of supplies. I feel like we're trapped in a constant game of Oregon Trail. So there I am on the sidewalk, with his stroller frame thingie in hand (greatest invention ever; thanks, Todd and Nessa!) when I go to open the door to lift out my sweet baby. Ahem. I said, open the door. And now you're in my world.

Helplessly, I watch my angelic little boy, who has no idea he's been saddled with a contender for Mother of the Year for the rest of his life, through the locked door. Poor, poor Kiernan. I try all four doors without luck. Apparently, in my three and a half years of avoiding the social security office one thing I did *not* do was read the owner's manual of one Honda CR-V. Who's the genius who thought up that when you manually lock the driver's side door all the other doors lock automatically?

Lots of tears, a police officer on a bicycle, a less-than-sympathetic 911 operator (seriously, I *do* consider locking my 3 month old in a car an emergency), and a whole truckload of firefighters later, one Kiernan William Dempsey was safely free. My favorite part (other than the obvious getting-my-baby-out-of-Honda-prison):

I asked the head firefighter if he would recommend that I make a copy of the key and put it in one of those magnetic lockbox thingies on my car for future instances when I lock my young son in the Honda. His response? "Well ma'am, no, we recommend you don't lock your keys in the car in the first place."

Classic.

What one can accomplish with hotdogs...

Okay, it's been a while since I've had a free moment to update the blog. Who knew that a small baby could be so much work? ;)

Yesterday, Billy and I took the circus for a little outing. No, seriously, if you were quiet you could hear circus music in the background. Ever try to wrangle three Ridgebacks and a 10-week-old baby anywhere? Especially when one of those Ridgebacks is Moxie, our box-of-rocks Ridgie? Yeah, that's what I thought. Billy and I recently decided that professional pictures taken of all the pups was priority number one. Yes, yes, I know that parents of a small child should most likely have different priorities, but that's the way it goes.

So, we made an appointment with the awesome Fiona Green (look her up, she's quite incredible; www. fionagreenphotography.com). We know of Fiona through her work with Little Orphan Angels, the rescue group we foster for. A little background: Although Billy and I have only fostered pups, LOA is predominantly a cat rescue. Therefore, I imagine the majority of Fiona's picture-taking has been coaxing shy little kitties out from behind bookshelves or waiting for the perfect pose from a Persian. Well, Persians the Ridgies are not. I believe if she'd caught a glimpse of Billy being dragged up to her front stoop by the gaggle of Ridgebacks she may have pretended not to be home. Or deathly ill. Or that she misunderstood when I booked the appointment that I said THREE Ridgebacks. A wise woman would have.

Regardless, after several hours and at least once having her photo lens being licked by an exhuberant Moxie, I've seen at least one picture of the three monkeys together. The woman is a miracle worker, I tell you. We even have a few pics of the monkeys and Kiernan. Since hell freezing over hasn't been reported in any of the news media, you may wonder how this miracle of miracles was accomplished. I'll tell you my secret: hotdogs, and lots of 'em.

In fact, I was so frenzied in my hotdog throwing, I'm pretty sure Billy caught me trying to toss a piece of hotdog to Kiernan once to elicit a smile. Oh yes, I'm going for Mother of the Year.