I really need to be more up to date with today's language.

Sam just introduced me to the word bahookie. He was using it at loud volumes, telling me to move my bahookie. He turned to me and asked, "Do you know what bahookie means?"

"No. What does bahookie mean?"

"If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you."

Great.

Jackson, my three-two-weeks-shy-of-four year old nephew quickly answered, "It's your bottom!"

"Sshhhhhh!" Sam responded.

Google is clearly my friend. That, and the Urban Dictionary.

That four year old was right:

"

"You have a moustache."

I had just sat down at the table and started setting up the cards for a game of Memory with Sam and Jackson when Sam greeted me with his first words of the day.

I looked up at him, various thoughts and emotions zipping through my head.

"Oh, really, kid? Like I never noticed.

Like I hadn't seen the thing growing on my upper lip every day since I was twelve. It's just the first thing I notice in every single photograph taken of me in the last twenty years."

I looked up at him, still arranging the cards, and answered, "Yes, I do," while thinking, "Deal the cards, just deal the cards."

Oh, clearly his Auntie hadn't heard him correctly. He chose to repeat himself in a louder voice.

"You have a moustache!"

Good lord, kid, like I haven't tried every. single. freakin' type of hair removal or minimizer created by man to get rid of the thing. Like I haven't spent thousands of dollars to deal with the issue and can tell anyone the merits and disadvantages of shaving, waxing, bleaching, or zapping (with light or electricity) hairs for hours on end.

Like I haven't spent the last two decades completely self-conscious about the hair on my upper lip, kid.

"Yes, Sam, you just said that. I heard you the first time. Why do you think it necessary to repeat yourself?"

"Um, well, I didn't think you knew."

Right.

I do now, kid.

After leaving the watchtower, Kris' niece and nephew joined our car on our continuing journey to our Grand Canyon lodging. As with any two children under 17 and over 4, put two in the backseat of any car, and they'll start fighting. One two three, right on time, the fighting started.

Kris decided to end the fighting with the distraction technique, by asking them if they knew any songs. Simutaneously, they starting singing, "Singin' in the rain! We're singin' in the rain. Just singin' in the rain. Singin' in the rain!"

After about three minutes of the endless repeat of the four words with minor variations, Kris turned to me. "I think they'd do well at 'This Song is Just Six Words Long'."

The chorus is the back seat immediately shifted. "This song is just six words long. This song is just six words long. This song is just six words long. This song is just six words long."

A few minutes later, I realized the song had changed again. William was still singing, "This song is just six words long," but Michelle had changed back to, "Singin' in the rain!" Kris looked over at me, smiled, and started in.

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream..."

Before we the kids had joined us in the car, Kris and I had been discussing songs that would never, ever be allowed in our collective iTunes library. "My Hump" was one that wouldn't make it, unless I had to choose between "My Hump" and "Loveshack" by the B52s. I'll let the shack burn to the ground first. That song is the worst song known to mankind, and NOT going on my iPod.

Tragically, with the row, row, rowing and the sing, sing, singing and the word, word, wording, the only song in my head, yes, was "Loveshack."

I gave in, and started belting out the song, bringing our cacophony to a fevered pitch.

I lasted all of ten seconds before laughing so hard I couldn't breathe.

Good times.

On our first day of vacation at the Grand Canyon, we drove into the East gate and stopped at the Watchtower. The watchtower sits close to the edge of the Canyon, with four stories to climb up for spectacular views. The nearness to the entrance gate and the spectacular views means many people stop there for their first view of the canyon.

Which means crowds.

Even on a Wednesday.

We arrived close enough to sunset that most of the other people there were also arriving at the end of a long day of travelling.

At least, that's what i'm convinced was the reason for the large, red-headed woman used to explain why it was okay to scream at her children in front of everyone. The child was about to take a picture that his mother didn't want taken (with a digital camera, no less); the picture was not of his mother, so I'm not really sure the reason for the woman's violent reaction,

Through the course of our visit, we crossed paths again with the woman, her husband, and their three children several times. The three siblings were all red-heads, and all very striking, good looking kids. Each will definitely grow up breaking hearts.

Assuming they can overcome the verbal beatdowns they receive from their parents.

In the twenty or so minutes our lives crossed with their, neither parent said one nice thing to any of the children. Worse, the father's voice was accusatory, the mother's dripping with contempt.

I wanted to take the kids aside, especially the boy, and talk to them. I wanted to tell him it gets better, that, no, this is not what life is, and that yes, thinking for himself is a good thing. I wanted to give him a hug, and tell if he keeps trying, he'll do wonderful amazing things. I wanted to encourage him to try, even when people say no. I wanted to tell him that not all women are like his mother, and, yes, he can do right.

And I wanted to tell him that his sister was skilled in parental manipulation, and that he'd need to learn how to play the game. Oh, kid, learn to play the game, and grow bigger than this shitty childhood life dealt you.

If you could get someone in your life to start a blog, who would it be and why?

I've seen pictures of my mom as a child, playing under the big tree in the backyard of the house my grandfather built. Decades later, I would run through that backyard as a child myself on my way from our house to my best friends house, cutting through back yards to cut the walking time from 10 minutes to two. My mother's childhood home was long since sold, but she loved the house we moved into, the house on the hill from her childhood dreams.

What other dreams did my mother have? What hopes, and problems, and joys, and failures and victories did my mom experience? How close does my life parallel her life, and how far away from hers is mine?

I don't know.

I know her better than she knew her mother, but ultimately I don't know much of my mother's life before me. I know the highlights. I can imagine the minutae. But, I really don't know.

The saving grace to this vacuum of knowledge is that she writes. She has journals; she writes short stories, many of them based on her life experiences fictionalized. If she started a blog, a personal one of highlights of each day, her life would open up, and I'd know how much we are alike. And how much we are different, though, I know I am my mother's daughter in so many ways.

Come to think of it, I know even less about my dad. Oh, the stories he tells when he's in the mood. If he started a blog, it would have to be an audio blog to get the full side splitting life of his words. Now that would be a blog worth listening to.