Call from Kris today. Shake up happened at work today, and half the staff was laid off. Kris included.

Contrast our two reactions:

Mine: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Kris': "Eh."

Kris had been working a LOT of hours semi-recently, fewer recently because the big push was over and they were all recovering from the long hours. His boss was forced out two weeks ago, just as the department was ramping up to work horrendous hours again, hours Kris wasn't sure he wanted to work.

He wasn't sure about the long term viability of the company, given the hours they were about to be asked to work. His boss leaving gave them a small reprieve, but ultimately not a full one. Kris had been asking if I had enough hours to keep him busy full time. Mike really doesn't want spouses working together, and I can see how scary the dynamics would be: feast and famine of a small business is scary when all your eggs are in one basket.

One basket.

One very small, burnt out basket.

To say I'm not a bit scared would be lying. I'm nervous. We have health insurance paid until the end of next month, so we're good there.

Kris, I'm with you, just as I before. It's just a fire under the butt to get us going, time to start on our projects, see where we end up. We have our safety net. We have each other. You are my rock. :*

Much to my disappointment, Sam continues to say, "I can't." It annoyed me last year. It annoys me now. How many years of my life did I live believing I couldn't, when in reality I could? How much could I have accomplished if I didn't care that I couldn't, if I would have just tried? I see so much of my self in that little kid, and I'm determined to help him avoid the self-doubt and self-loathing I grew up with.

Determined.

After only a day with him, I sat him down and, in my best "I'm the adult here" voice, I told him he does something that I really don't like, and I wanted him to stop it.

He looked up at me from his seat on the couch, a look of puzzlement and worry. What did he just do that made Auntie so stern? She was laughing with me just a few moments ago.

I told him, "You say, 'I can't' when you haven't even tried. I will never ask you to do something I don't believe you can do. You're a big boy now, you're smart, and strong, and coordinated, and funny, and ticklish." I had to get my Sam tickling in quickly, before he was too worried. "You can do a lot, but you have to try."

He seemed to understand a little bit.

"So, this week," I continued, "we're going to try."

He looked uncertain.

"That's all I want you to do, is try."

Part of my heart sank when he asked in response, "But what if I fail?"

How did this kid learn a fear of failure so darn young?

"If you fail, you fail. But that won't make me, or your mom, or your dad, or Uma or Yoda or Jackson love you any less. If you don't try, you won't know if you could succeed."

"Okay," he answered, so small.

I realized my mom was watching over my shoulder. I wondered how much she had heard.

"So, this week, we'll try, right?"

"Yes."

Several times today I had to remind him, "What do we say when we think, 'I can't,' Sam?"

He'd answer, "I'll try."

And try he did.

He swam the length of the shallow end of the pool to the edge of the deep end. He dove to the bottom of the pool near that edge to retrieve a toy. He bounced all the way back to the shallow end when he couldn't touch. He opened a box by himself, one that he almost gave up on. He read a sign by sounding out the letters, one he told me he couldn't read.

He could. I asked him to try, convinced him to try, and he did. He tried and could.

None of the accomplishments were big, but maybe in the accummulation at the end of the week, all together, they'll be huge.

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.