Before I was LR Burt, I was LR Bond, and I made Mr. Burt laugh by suggesting, while we were out on a dinner date, that we go walk around the new Target Greatland that had just opened in Waco. He couldn’t see the fun in going to a store like Target when we didn’t need anything from there (or have the money to buy it).

“Just wait,” I told him. “Someday we’ll be old and married and so desperate to get away from our offspring that we’ll hire a babysitter and go to Target and think it’s the funnest thing we’ve done in a long time.”

“Nope, not gonna happen,” Mr. Burt insisted, and then took me to a local pizza joint where we jockeyed for position with birthday boys and girls at the skee ball machines.

Famous last words–even if they were accompanied by a confident derisive snort.

Actually, it turns out we were both sort of right: seven years later, we’re married and once, if not twice a month, are shooed out of the house by my mother, whose favorite way to spend a Saturday is babysitting the Burt Squirt (to the consternation of our neighbor Patty, who wants a baby fix badly enough to offer a babysitting rate that’s in direct competition with Grandmommy’s), and our idea of a good date is still skee ball at Dave and Buster’s.

The difference is that seven years ago, Mr. Burt wouldn’t have responded to my suggestion that, after dinner, we go walk around IKEA, by saying, “Sure. It’ll be good exercise.”

Next thing we know, we’ll be power-walking in the mall with our pants pulled up to our chests.

I was on my way out of Walmart last week, pushing the buggy with sunglasses in hand, ready for the moment I stepped out into the glaring sunlight. The Burt Squirt, of course, made a grab for my shades. Not wanting to spoil his fun by snatching them away, but also unwilling to risk having my favorite sunglasses broken by the curious and ungentle exploring hands of my seven month-old, I popped them on his face instead. I didn’t have to feign laughter at the round-eyed expression of bewilderment visible through the big, tinted lenses perched on his chubby cheeks. He looked like a baby clown, and I told him so as I pushed him toward the exit.

Cute as he was wearing Mommy’s oversized sunglasses, however, my little boy was not the only person who captivated my attention in that moment. We were, after all, in Walmart. But this was not one of my typical encounters with Walmart clientele.

The husband and wife could barely walk, they were so old and frail, and they were holding hands. I got the feeling they weren’t holding hands because they needed to, but because they wanted to. All those years ago when they discovered they liked each other, then fell in love, they’d held hands; why wouldn’t they continue to do so after a lifetime together had given them reason to love and like each other even more?

Their smiles initially may have been expressions of happiness at being together, defying, for one more day, the physical limitations of age to perform such necessary tasks as grocery shopping, but I soon realized they were grinning at the Burt Squirt and me as we continued to giggle over the sunglasses. I stopped pushing the buggy as the lady released her husband’s hand and haltingly approached us.

“Look at that chubby little foot!”  She caught said chubby little foot in her gnarled hands and squeezed it, cooing and crooning to the Burt Squirt, and beaming up at me. “Oh, congratulations! Congratulations!”

“Congratulations!” her husband echoed, flashing a smile as gummy as the Burt Squirt’s, giving one of the chubby baby cheeks a pinch.

I thanked them, wondering how many of their own children, grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren they were thinking of with so much love in their eyes as they played with my baby boy.

“You look so happy,” the lady said with a sigh. “You both look so happy.” Then she clasped hands with her husband again and continued on into Walmart.

I wish I’d thought to tell her that she looked happy, too, and that I hope someday a young mother thinks the same thing about Mr. Burt and me when it’s all we can do to totter into Walmart, hand-in-hand, and squeeze chubby babies who remind us of the Burt Squirt.

A funny thing happened the other night as Mr. Burt and I enjoyed a few minutes of alone time after the Burt Squirt went to bed.

We sat together on the sofa, and Mr. Burt gave me a back massage because I was hurting from hefting the 17.2 pound Burt Squirt (and, occasionally, his carseat carrier) all day.  As if that wasn’t relaxing enough, our cat, Dorian Gray, who hasn’t been extremely affectionate toward us since we surprised her by returning from four days’ absence with a loud, stinky new pet who gets all our attention, curled up next to me and began to purr.

Always keen to encourage sociable behavior in our kitty (who is, perhaps, too aptly named), Mr. Burt praised her:  “Oh, you’re coming to sit with Lisa! That’s so nice, Dorrie!”

My fingers, which had been stroking Dorrie’s silky black coat, stopped.

“You called me Lisa,” I said at the exact moment as Mr. Burt said, “I called you Lisa.”

For the past five months, when Mr. Burt has spoken about me, it’s mostly been to the Burt Squirt, so he refers to me as Mommy. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I heard him talk about me as Lisa. It was nice to hear (after I realized he was talking about me).  There’s probably something deep and psychological in there about motherhood and identity, but I haven’t had enough sleep for that and mostly I just think it’s funny that Mr. Burt and I realized at the same moment how little opportunity we have to refer to each other by our names instead of by our new roles.

For the record, Mr. Burt has never addressed me as Mommy, nor have I ever addressed him as Daddy.

But perhaps, in light of this incident, we’d better start addressing each other as Lisa and Jeff instead of Tater and Jeffer, or Baby and Honey, lest we forget our names altogether.

On the other hand, this way we’re not in any danger of wearing out our names.

It’s apt that Mr. Burt and I often refer to the Burt Squirt as “The Buddy,” as our approach to parenting tends to reflect the philosophy presented in the commercial jingle for the doll of the same name:  wherever we go, he goes.

Inspired by Mr. Burt’s sister and brother-in-law, we’ve opted to place The Buddy in whatever activities or social situations arise for us.  In other words, if we want to do it, we do it.  The Buddy comes along for the ride.  The hope is that by the time these settings are actually age-appropriate for him, they’ll be so normal to him that we’ll avoid freakouts and bad behavior.

Also, in becoming Mommy and Daddy, Mr. Burt and I have enough to adjust to without letting go of our normal social lives.

While in terms of physical development The Buddy may not be more advanced than other kids his age (apart from that little thing where he can already sit up unassisted), he’s off the charts in worldly experience.

At two weeks old, he went to a restaurant for the first time.

At three weeks, he had his first Starbucks…

…and spent his first afternoon away from Mommy and Daddy, with Grandmommy and Mimi.

At one month, he tiptoed through the tulips at the Dallas Arboretum…

…and experienced his first Bond family holiday brunch (Easter, at the Gaylord Texan Resort).

At two months, he had his first overnight trip to Grandmommy and Grandaddy’s…

…played at the neighborhood park…

…saw it all happening at the zoo…

…and swam in Damon and TK’s pool on Memorial Day.

At three months, he attended his second wedding (and had a blowout, hence the shirtlessness)…

…helped us celebrate our wedding anniversary at a symphony concert/picnic at the park…

…and  saw his first movie.  (Really — he sat and watched the whole thing.)

He handled it all so beautifully, never once showing any sign of minding being dragged around with Mommy and Daddy, even seeming to enjoy being taken along for the ride.  We never gave a second thought to taking our now four month-old out to family friends’ house for our traditional cookout and fireworks extravaganza.

At twenty-eight, Mr. Burt and I missed the 4th of July fireworks for the first time.

The Burt Squirt on the Diaper Deck, which, incidentally, was invented by his grandfather. Because the Squirt's daddy inevitably had a blowout whenever they were out, and in those days there were no such things as infant changing tables. A true family legacy.

I’ve mentioned it before, but it bears repeating that for my first Mother’s Day, the Burt Squirt gave me eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.  Mr. Burt gave me the day off from diaper duty.  And a new coffeemaker.  All such thoughtful mommy gifts that it’s impossible to say which is the best.

Yesterday was Mr. Burt’s first Father’s Day.

He got a shirt that didn’t fit.

He volunteered to change two diapers.  Both turned out to be horrendously poopy.

Three times he picked up the Burt Squirt and became the target of projectile spit-ups of atomic proportions.

Apart from sounding like the “The Twelve Days of Father’s Day,” this must be proof of something.

Is it that I’m the Burt Squirt’s favorite?  Or does he realize, even at this tender age, the wisdom in not biting the breast that feeds him? Maybe it’s just one more example of the gender disparity inherent in Hallmark holidays.

One thing I’m sure of:  I wouldn’t have had as good an attitude as Mr. Burt if any of these misfortunes had befallen me on Mother’s Day.  He takes the bad parts of parenting in stride, without losing his smile or getting annoyed at the Burt Squirt.  Because he knows that in life, crap happens.  Literally.  And you’ve just got to clean it up and move on without letting yourself get mired in it.

This from the man who swore, before the Squirt was born, that he’d never be able to change a poopy diaper without throwing up.

So Happy Father’s Day to my better half.  I learn more from you about how to be a great parent than I could get any parenting book.  Especially since I don’t have time to read parenting books.

And Liam may only be three months old, but with you for his example, he’s well on his way to being a great dad someday, too.

And, as the poops of the fathers are visited upon the sons, you’ll be vindicated on a future Father’s Day.  What better present is there than that?