Welcome to paradise

One day while shuffling through tunes on our way home from preschool, 3B and I happened upon LSJUMB’s version of Welcome to Paradise, which we had to listen to about 128 times in the half-hour drive home.

Since then, 3B has been asking for “The Stanford Band” as he believes the song is called regularly. Hey, could be worse…he could be asking for WPOD. (Google it yourselves, you knobs.)

So, of course, we’ve also been serenaded by the littlest red jacket in the house with his versions, which include the only line he knows…perhaps because it’s the only line he understands. Anyway, it’s pretty fun for all of us to watch, including his sister, even if she doesn’t always define her brother’s drum solos as the gateways to paradise.

Note: At something like 30 frames per second, the footage of baby sister here includes something like 6.7 million photos of said sister, which should satisfy my niece who has been not so subtly pestering me through her mother for more pictures of the little cutie. So there. And if you want more pictures of here, come back and babysit, cook and clean while we all take a week to catch up on our sleep enough to operate a camera.

As for Froggie Went A-Courtin’, I’m only sorry that I couldn’t capture a version with 3B’s wicked accurate Dylan impersonation. This will have to do for now.

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  • Does he need a Stanford band cap, to go with his drum kit and red jacket? I found a couple the last time I was home.

    As long as he's figured out that the reason you play the rowdy tunes is to get that grin on a little girl's face, he's gonna do fine.

    And she will too. Thanks, as always, for the fresh pix.

  • Good to see the kids moving around. I can tell he dresses himself by the way he wears his guitar shirt.

  • Mr J: What we really need is one of those white bucket hats.

    CAGirl: Astute observation; that's exactly what happened.

  • For the next 18 years, your mantra when they dress to embarrass you, is to repeat that they are now old enough to choose their own clothing, and at least they have some on.

  • Oh. My mantra was, "Whose kid is that?"

    My bad.