Spaghettle Noodies

Spaghettle Noodies:

I was picking up the boys after work today.  Because it's election day, the Bear was out of Kindergarten and he got to spend the day with the lady who watches the Bean and used to watch him for day care.  As we were getting ready to leave, the topic of dinner came up.  I had previously mentioned making spaghetti a few days before and the Bear was trying to tell me that's what he wanted for dinner.

In case I haven't mentioned it before, the Bear is incredibly articulate for a five year old.  He has no problem speaking and the only words he regularly mispronounces are the ones that we haven't told him he's saying wrong because it's just too darn cute. [1]

Only on this occasion his brain got kerfuttled [2] and he spoonerized [3] the words.  Only it was one of those occasions where as you're speaking you know it's coming out wrong but you can't stop it and attempts to fix it just make it worse.

If you want to hear someone else discussing it, go look up "Brian Regan take luck" on youtube.  Or just click this link [4].

At any rate, despite the Bear's best efforts otherwise, all he could manage to say was "Spaghettle Noodies"[5] over and over again.  He kept trying to say something else, with many false starts and stops, but to no avail.

Having been the victim myself of such mental malfunctions many time in the past, I immediately started laughing.  The Bear's old day-care Nana, could only make out what sounds like "Nudies" and simply stared at him.  It was good times.

Fast forward to us getting home and making dinner.  The Pook is in full school play costume mode and is away slaving over a sewing machine, so it was just the men in the kitchen

The Bear helped me make the spaghetti sauce [6] and then once the noodles were done it was time to eat.

I don't know if you've ever eaten spaghetti with a two-year old and a five year old, but in case you haven't let me illuminate you as to a crucial fact or two.

The possibility that the two year old will not end up with sauce on every part of his being is so remote as to be non-existent.  The five year old has better odds, but they're still nothing you'd want to take to Vegas. Thus you'd better be prepared to clean up afterwards and if they are wearing any clothes you want to remain unstained with red sauce you'd better remove them prior to the event.[7]  

And thus it was that the Bean was promptly stripped down to his diaper and the Bear was told to take off his shirt.

I sat down myself, but in the short span of time it had taken me to go from seating the Bean, to the counter to pick up my plate and back to the table, he'd already painted his portion of the town red.  So, I promptly stood back up and took off my own shirt. [8]

So there we three sat, happily munching on [9] our pasta.

And as I looked around the table at our various states of undress, I thought:

Spaghettle Noodies it is.

Spaghettle Noodies: A+

[1] - Like Pretzel.  He still calls them Prentzels and we're okay with that.
[2] - Technical term
[3] - An actual linguistic term, as opposed to kerfuttled.
[4] - Any of the first two videos have the clip.  But do yourself a favor and listen to the longer one, because Brian Regan is hilarious.  Or if stand-up turned into a Coke ad is more your speed, click this.
[5] - Prounced "Spag-ettle" and "New-dees"
[6] - Yes, I make my own sauce.  It doesn't take that long and it tastes way better than anything from a jar.  If you ask nice, maybe I'll give you the recipe.
[7] - In truth, the Bear likes his with no sauce and just butter and Parmesan cheese, but not surprisingly it doesn't really cut down on the mess that much.
[8] - After all it's a fool that doesn't take his own advice.
[9] - And in the Bean's case, wearing.

Temporary Insanity

Temporary Insanity:

You hear about people pleading temporary insanity from time to time.  News reports of the events surrounding such crimes often start something like this:

"Earlier this month a local woman [1] shot and killed five people while . . ."

Of course, while you don't actually hear about the plead of temporary insanity until months and months later, you start to hear speculation about it long before.

Bob: Hey, did you hear about that woman who killed all those people at Wal-Mart [2] last week?
Charles: Yeah, I bet she pleads temporary insanity and gets away with it too.

I suspect that that idea crosses the mind of most people when they hear about someone taking such a plea.  Surely temporary insanity is just their way of trying to "get away" with something. Right? Because honestly, temporary insanity?  You really want us to believe that you aren't normally crazy.  It was just this one time?

Officer Carl: You're under arrest for the murder of five people.
Suspect: No no officer.  You don't need to arrest me.
Officer Carl: But you're crazy.  You killed people.  You're dangerous!
Suspect: No, I'm over it now.  See it was just "temporary" insanity.
Officer Carl: Oh, well no problem then.  Have a nice day!

Well, what if I told you there was an experience that would let you see how temporary insanity is possible.  It won't necessarily drive you actually crazy [3] but it will bring into stark contrast how even the most "sane" of us could lose it, if only for a short time.

And what is that experience you might ask?  Well, I'll tell you.  Here it is:

Parenting.

That's right parenting.

Don't get me wrong.  Being a parent [4] is wonderful.  It's more awesome in more ways than you can fathom.  However, there are days when your kids will just drive you insane.  When the older child is crying with runners of snot coming down his face because he doesn't like the food that he ate just fine the night before.  And then the younger one comes walking into the room carrying the next item in a procession of dangerous items that he seems to be able to summon out of thin air. [5]  Of course, taking this item from him will cause him to break down into tears worse than his brother.  Speaking of brother, the older one has decided to eat his food after all, but has someone managed to get it all over his face and stomach, as well as the majority of his side of the table. [6] Which in turn somehow causes the younger one to suddenly want the rest of his food, which he will now reach up onto the table for and spill everywhere on the floor.  Which causes the older one to start crying again because this spill got a solitary drop of pears on his shoe. [7] And while you go to get a rag, the younger one sees the Halloween candy bag and begins saying "I want a lollipop" over and over and over and over and over. [8]  Which causes the older one to declare that he's having candy for a snack.  And when you inform him that that won't be true unless he finishes his food, starts the crying [9] going again. Meanwhile the younger one has suddenly discovered that the trash can is once a again a source of wonderful treasures and suddenly you realize . . .

Temporary insanity.  Yeah, I can see that.

Temporary insanity: D-

[1] - I'm not being sexist here, it could just as easily be a man.
[2] - I've no specific reason to pick Wal-Mart, but honestly if you need a store to have someone suddenly kill a bunch of their fellow customers, I suspect many Wal-Mart shoppers could step up and do you proud.
[3] - But it might.
[4] - A father in my case, but having talked to the Pook, I can attest that it works the same for the mothers as well.
[5] - Alternately it could be the next in a succession of extremely fragile and expensive things that he like wise seems to be able to summon out of thin air.
[6] - Which you might expect from the two-year-old, but the big one is five now.
[7] - Which evidently is sacred and must remain clean, unlike the front of his shirt.
[8] - and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
[9] - And the snot

Two Conversations with the Boys

Two Conversations with the Boys:

Here are two stories about the young ‘uns.  The boys are both amazingly awesome, and they are both so very different from each other.  Since I haven’t mentioned them for the while, and to keep you up to date here are a few facts. 

The Bear, my oldest son, is now five. [1]  He’s in Kindergarten and is loving it.

His younger brother, the Bean, is now two and a half.  He’s an unintentional force of destruction, but that’s a story for another day.

Also I need to precursor this first story by saying that while the Bear is fairly smart for his age, and on any given day we are likely to have conversations about just about anything, I don’t believe I have ever talked about this type of thing with him and that I had neither done nor said anything before this conversation to prompt his comments.

While I was working in the front yard, the bear was riding his tricycle around.  Typically everything he does comes with a running monologue, so after an unusually long stretch of silence [2] I looked over to see what was going on.

He had stopped peddling and was sitting with his head slightly tilted to the side and a far off look in his eyes clearly deep in thought.  The following conversation ensued.

Me: What’s up, buddy?

Bear: Daddy?

Me: Yes?

Bear: When people don’t want something . . .

[Long dramatic pause as he finished gathering and organizing his thoughts]

Bear: . . . it costs less.

I have to admit that in the pause in his statement, I was wondering (and hoping) that he was about to make a comment along these lines.  I also have to admit that I was amazingly proud. [3]

I tried to ask him a few follow up questions to understand what had prompted the statement, but he wouldn’t really answer them and instead he just said he was “just thinking about it”. 

I admit that we do occasionally talk about the price of things, but only in the usual small child context of him wanting me to buy him something and me explaining that it’s too expensive.   And of course he hasn’t said anything else along those lines since.  [4]

On the flip side there is the Bean.  Since the Bear now goes to Kindergarten, morning trips to day care are just me and the Bean now.  Sometimes we listen to music [5], sometimes we sing our own songs [6], sometimes we look for things out in the world [7] and sometimes we have discussions of our own. 

Of course, during these conversations, I occasionally have no idea what it is he’s talking about.  I understand the words he’s saying, it’s just that he’s not the best at providing context [8]. While this isn’t strictly a conversation, the following is a good example. 

As is probably the norm for parents of small children, the back seat of my car tends to end up a hodge podge of toys, books, half eaten snack bits and other random detritus of childhood/parenthood.

Bean: I want that one.[9]

Me: What do you want?

Bean: That one.

Me: What is it?

Bean: That one.  I want it.

Me: What does it look like?

Bean: That one.

Me: [silence]

Bean [more emphatically]: Daddy, I want that one.

Me: And I want you to have it.  But you have to tell me more.  What is it that you want?

Bean: That one.

And so it goes, until finally I begin a list of random guesses of what I can remember being in the back seat.

Me: Do you want the pencil?

Bean: No.

Me: Your cup?

Bean: No.

Me: The lion pillow?

Bean: No.

Me: What do you want then?

Bean: That one.

Me: What color is it? [10]

Bean: That one.

Me [stealing a quick glance into the floorboard behind the passenger seat]: Is it the book?

Bean: No.

Me [stealing another look]: Is it the Froot Loop [11]

Bean: No

Me [relieved]: Is it the bracelet?

Bean: Okay!

He never says yes.  It’s always ‘okay’ and he always says it in the happiest most agreeable tone ever.  And it’s not like he doesn’t know all of the names for all of the other things I’ve guessed.  He just never says them.  I can only assume that it is just that for him this is how this conversation goes. [12]

I’ve tried lots of variations on this conversation, many gambits to help determine what it is he so desperately needs.  But they all end up the same way.

In truth lately when I ask something like, “can you tell me what it looks like?” there is a short period of “um, uh, er” coming from the back seat in which I start to think that we might actually be having a breakthrough and I might get some kind of helpful detail, but, so far my hopes have been dashed every time on the rocky shore of the inevitable next response: ‘That one’.

Two Conversations with the Boys:

The Bear: A+

The Bean: A+ [13]

[1] – He would want me to tell you that he is actually five and a half. 

[2] – Ten seconds would be unusually long, but in this case it was longer.

[3] – I guess Economics runs in the blood.

[4] – So I’ve held off for now on notifying the committee for the Nobel prize on Economics.

[5] - This is usually because a demanding voice from the back seat starts saying, “I want songs” over and over.

[6] – The ABC’s are at the top of the charts right now.  Bingo was there for a long time, which while repetitive in the extreme is worth it for the extreme cuteness of “Bingo was his nay-no.”

[7] – Letters, numbers and shapes most often.

[8] – Or nouns for that matter.

[9] - This unhelpfully will come with no pointing at all.  Not that I could really tell what he is pointing at anyway, since I’m usually busy driving during these exchanges. And if the car should be stopped, any request for him to point results in some comments, but ultimately no pointing.

[10] – This is truly an act of desperation as the Bean isn’t so good with his colors yet.  The only one he consistently gets is pink.  There are a handful of others he is about 50% on and the rest are completely a toss up.  Thus even if he should say a color, it doesn’t really mean that the item in question is that color.

[11] – Please don’t let it be the Froot Loop, that one single lone Froot Loop that has probably been back there for months and bears more in common with styrofoam than cereal at this point.

[12] – And I don’t think that he really enjoys these conversations either, at least that’s the feeling I get based on the sound of frustration in his voice.

[13] - Yes, these conversations can be frustrating, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

A Probable Turning Point

The Bear found a lady bug in the back yard.

He brought it inside and showed mom and dad.

He received a bug jar with a magnifying top from his grandmother and having failed previously to catch anything worthy of study (or anything at all for that matter), I suggested he put the lady bug in the jar and get a good look at it.

All was well in the world.

When it was time to come inside, we reminded him that he needed to let the lady bug go.

Why? he asked.

Because if you don't the lady bug will die.

I don't want to.  He's my pet.

Said with the beginnings of a quiver in the voice and impending tears on the lids.

You have to Bear.  If you keep him in the jar, he'll starve to death and die.

More than able to empathize and vaguely able to summon the vestiges of my own memories in similar situations, I attempted to make the release into something more than dumping a bug back into the garden.

The effort had minimal effect

And then seven words I never saw coming and never knew I would dread so much to hear

I want a pet of my own.

The quiver now fully evidenced and the tears now flowing.

This is not going to end well.

Three Bear Vignettes

Three Bear Vignettes:  If you are unsure of who the Bear is you can check it out here.  All three of these tales took place in the recent past, so he is about three-and-a-half-years-old in all of them.  Also, I didn't give this post a grade.

Story 1: 

While hanging out with his Aunt Lyndsay [1] the two began to have a conversation about outer space and the planets. [2]  The Bear started telling her about the rings around Saturn, Uranus and Neptune.  The following conversation then took place: [3]

Lyndsay: I don't think all of those planets have rings.
Bear: Yes, they do.
Lyndsay: I don't know.  I think only Saturn has rings.
Bear [Talking very matter-of-factly]: Aunt Lyndsay, I think I know more about planets then you do.

Story 2:

At the Bear's day care, there used to be a couple of girls that were older, but they've gone on to Kindergarten and such.  Thus now the Bear and one other girl are the oldest.  There are also a couple of other infants.  The other girl is essentially the same age as the Bear and they are evidently thick as thieves.

He spends every day playing cars and other typical boy stuff.  The other girl apparent likes to play "getting married".  As the only potential groom, the Bear evidently usually suffers through this with good graces.  However the other day she was evidently taking too long, which prompted him to finally blurt out:

"Are we married yet?  Because I've got things to do."

Story 3: 

Driving in the car the other day with the Bear, we began a conversation on the differences between backhoes and excavators. This is a discussion we frequently have.  You'd think it would be easy to definitively say one way or the other, but it isn't.  Especially as the British seem to have a different set of names all together for their trucks. [4]

Bear: Do backhoes all have tires?
Me: I believe so.
Bear: Don't some of them have tracks. [5]
Me: I think only the really big ones have tracks and those are excavators.
Bear: No, Daddy.  Backhoes and excavators are the same thing.  I know it's hard to understand.

[1] - It's not polite to reveal a woman's age, but I will say that she's only a few years younger than the Pook
[2] - If you spend more than ten minutes with the Bear you should probably expect this conversation to come up.  I suggest having already chosen a favorite planet
[3] - In the interest of full disclosure: I didn't actually witness this conversation, so all quoted lines are likely slightly different from the original.

[4] - And a fair amount of the youtube videos the Bear watches about construction trucks seem to come from across the pond.
[5] - Meaning treads like a bulldozer or tank.

The Principal Players

This is my 50th post on the blog so I thought I'd do something different and clarify and give a bit more info on some of the people I seem to mention from time to time.

The Pook:  (a.k.a. - My Better Half, the Mrs., the Woman Who For Some Reason Puts Up With Me).  She's living proof that good things come to those who wait.  It may be sappy to say it, but she's my best friend and I'd be lost without her.

A few other facts about her.  She's in the same profession as me but at a different location. She's never met a craft that she didn't like or excel in and as previously mentioned, she's an Olympic class sleeper.  Though she does talk in her sleep from time to time which leads to interesting conversations.

Pook: [mumbles something]

Me (not realizing she's actually asleep): What's that?

Pook: The blankets are [mumbles]

Me: What's wrong with the blankets?

Pook: They're getting in and out of the basket.

Me: ????

Pook: They're going for rides.

Me: What?

Pook (now waking up enough to realize a little more of her surroundings): Nothing.  Good night.

Me: What??

Finally, she's an excellent mother to our two youngsters.


The Bear: (a.k.a. - The Bug, The Bud, Squirtimus Prime and Goober Noober).  The Bear turned three this year which in and of itself is astonishing to me.  He's incredibly bright for his age and was essentially a perfect child for the first two years of his life.  This year he's decided to forgo being the sweet little boy he used to be and has transformed into Mr. Whiny Pants.  In any event, he's amazing and I'm constantly amazed by the things he says.  Of course he's also still a typical little boy who loves anything that has wheels.


Here's what he told me a few months ago when he came into our bedroom one morning and hopped up onto the bed: 


Bear: Daddy, I love everything in the whole world.


Me: [smiles]


Bear (after a pause suddenly adds): And monster trucks. 


Me: Why do you like monster trucks so much?


Bear (with appropriate hand signs): Because they can crush things like buildings, signs . . . and empty bottles.


Evidently monster trucks are defeated by full bottles.


The Bean: (a.k.a. - Mr. B and The Baby Who Wants to Cry Every Night at Midnight).  The Bean is a whopping two months old as of this post.  We had been so lucky with the Bear that we knew if we ever had a second kid he would probably be completely different and be a terror.  For the most part that hasn't happened so far (knock on wood) but there's still time.  Though he's definitely different in a lot of ways already.  One of the main ways is that he simply doesn't listen to his father.*


For instance, when the Bear was little I made a deal with him that if he didn't pee on me, when he got older I would take him out to whatever restaurant he wanted.  Scoff if you'd like but he never peed on me once.**  When the Bean came along I made the same deal with him.  He promptly peed on me.  In fact he's done it five times at this point.  On the last occasion I took his diaper off to change him and he kicked his digestive system into high and stuff began coming out of both sides.  I put the diaper back on but not before he'd gotten pee all over everything, including me.  Once he'd finished, I attempted to give him a stern talking to while I cleaned him up.  He then smiled up at me with a beatific (albeit toothless) smile that was so cute I instantly forgave him.  He then peed on me again.


Pook: A++
Bear: A++
Bean: A++


* - Yes I know he's only 2 months old but that doesn't change things.
** - Okay technically he did twice, but once he was actually shooting at his mother and she dodge out of the way and the other time was a rebound shot off the tub wall.  So I don't hold either against him.

Mother's Day and Father's Day

Mother's Day & Father's Day: Mother's day is a great idea.  A day to say thank you to your mom for everything that she's done and believe me that wasn't an easy task.  Now you're saying: "Wait a minute! You don't know what I was like as a child and you don't know my mother at all!"  Well the fact of the matter is that I don't need to.  Let's just assume that you were actually a good child.  One who really didn't cause your mom much trouble at all.*  She still had to do all of the everyday normal things that come with taking care of a child: cleaning up after you, getting you dressed, feeding you, etc. etc.  This stuff isn't easy.  Need proof that this isn't easy?  Here you go.

Mother's day is the day that you are supposed to be thanking mom for everything that she did for you.  So how do you properly thank mom for doing all of that cleaning, tending to and cooking that she did for you?  Well,  if it was so easy you could do some cleaning, tending to and cooking for her.  But do you?  Nope, in fact mother's day is the day in which restaurants do more business than any other day of the year.  Let's hope you took her to a nice one and weren't too cheap.

Father's day is a whole other day and let's face it, if there wasn't a mother's day there wouldn't be a father's day.  Don't get me wrong, dads deserve to be celebrated as much as moms.  But while there are exceptions, in general I think we can all agree that when you get down to it moms are carrying the majority of the parental weight.**

Speaking as a dad, I like father's day fine.  It isn't your tier one holiday, but it's nice to have somebody take a moment to say thanks.  My only real problem with father's day is the day that it is on.  Mother's day is on a Sunday and it should be.  If there is any day of the week that says "Mom", then it is Sunday.  Sundays in May are bright and sunny.  There are flowers and pretty dresses in pastel.  Even the month of May seems like a Mom month.

Father's day is in June and that's fine.  June sounds like a father-type month to me,*** though I think August might have been better.  But either way, father's day shouldn't be on Sunday.  It should be on Saturday.  Saturday is dad's day.  Saturdays are sawdust and wood.  Saturdays are cut grass and gasoline spilled on the mower.  Saturdays are sports on TV and grilling out.  In other words dad stuff.

Anyway, in my opinion father's day should be on Saturday.  And since I'm already speaking for the rest of the father's out there let me throw this in as well.  While we do appreciate the gifts, lay off the ties. If you were thinking tie, think again.

Mothers Day: A-
Fathers Day: B+


* - And for some of you that is a BIG assumption.
** - Yes, I realize your family might be an exception so you can skip the pointed email defending dear old dad's honor.
*** - Apologies to any ladies out there named such.  I promised I didn't just call you manly.

Delivery (and the things that go with it)

Delivery (and the things that go with it): No, we're not talking about when somebody brings food to your house.  This is the other kind of delivery.  Friday night, after all of our friends had come over to hang out, our second son decided to show up two days early.  So, I spent Friday night/Saturday morning at Kennestone Hospital.  The Pook showed that her previous performance as an Olympic Class baby birther was not a fluke and gave a repeat performance of equal (if not better) caliber.  Just like last time, I had ringside seats.  And having watched this twice, I can honestly say that I have no idea how we have survived as a race.  Pook wisely opted for the "Every drug you can give me" plan, so I can't really comment on observable pain levels.  But the pain she had before all of the pharmaceuticals kicked in leaves me with no doubt that there is only one word to describe the people who do it without drugs: "stupid".  I know, people say that they want to experience it the "natural way" or some such hogwash.  Well the next time you go in to the dentist to get a filling, why not get that done the "natural way" as well?*  Yeah, I thought not.  Plenty of people in the past have commented on the actual birth.  Words like watermelon and nostril usually get used.  So, I'll not go into that, other than to say, "Forget about it."  That some people do this multiple times means they are either mentally challenged or superhuman.**  Then there is the stuff that follows the baby.  Literally.  Ewww.  And to think, some people choose to deliver at home!  I don't think that they make Hefty bags for that, but good luck.

The Delivery Process: C-
The People Who Deliver: A+

* - Disclaimer, I stole this from the Pook.
** - My mom and sister both had four kids.  Woofah!

Bedtime

Bedtime: What is it about bedtime that causes my son to become a complete idiot?  Normally he is a very good and well behaved boy, but as soon as it is bedtime he turns into someone else.  (Someone else that is a complete pain in the patoot.) Don't get me wrong, I can sympathize.   While it may have a been a few years, I can remember not wanting to go to bed.  Yes, it is dark outside.  Yes, we have to get up early in the morning.  Yes, going to bed late means a cranky poo-head tomorrow.  But sorry mom and dad, my day isn't done yet.  I still have things to do.  I mean, we haven't even played Candy Land yet!  When I got to high high school it got even worse.  I watched Late Night with David Letterman most nights when I was in high school and this back in the day, so he didn't come on at 11:30.  Late Night started at 12:30 and while I don't really remember the exact time I got up in the morning, I do remember it was early.  Don't ask me how I got the grades I did, because I must have been asleep at the time.  Bed time was an inconvenience, an interruption and an annoyance.  Sure I was tired, but I was busy.  And then somewhere in between my college years and now something changed.  Going to bed still means that my day is over and perhaps even what feels like prematurely, but I don't really mind as much.  The sweet siren song of my pillow calls to me and I'm off to bed.  And usually with little fuss or trouble, I'm asleep in no time.* As I write this, it is 8:10.  If you asked me in high school or college about the possibility of me happily going to bed at 8:10, I would have laughed myself silly.  But as they say, time changes all things.  So, if you'll pardon me, I think I'm going to bed.**

Bedtime: B+

* - Of course nobody beats my wife at going to sleep.  She literally can be asleep before her head hits the pillow.  Here's and actual conversation.  Her: Goodnight.  Me: Goodnight.  Her: ZZZZZZZZZZ.  Announcer: Total elapsed time: 1.2 seconds.  A new Olympic record!!!!!!!!

** - For the record, I'll probably read until 9:30 or so.  Yeah, I know what you're thinking.  Stay up reading until 9:30!  He's a crazy man!

3 Year Check Ups

3 Year Check Ups: As I was not the actual person getting their 3 Year Check-up, I can only make my report via what I witnessed, assumptions and guesses.  I know that prior to going to the doctor, the participating toddler's initial responses seemed to indicate this wouldn't be a good time.  He made comments like, "But I don't wanna go to the doctor" and "Daddy, I'm not sick".  However, he was a brave little man when the time came.  And despite being forewarned by his previous visits and by his father's dark revelation that this would probably involve getting a shot, there were no tears.  More like a grim resolution to get it done.  He did not resist in any way as the nurse weighed and measured him (32lbs, 37.25").  He stoically underwent the new experience of having his blood pressure taken and while I didn't actually see or hear it, I have to assume there was a sigh of relief when the nurse told us that his shots were up to date and he wouldn't need one.  The doctor was all smiles and cheer and he actually had a little bit of a conversation with her on his own.  Once she left the room there was but two things left to be done.  First he needed to get his clothes back on.  Second, and more importantly, somebody needed to bring him a lollipop.

3 Year Check Ups: B+