Too Small

"Paul, take the Batcave back to your room."

"Mawma, I too smawl.  I can't cawwy de Bacabe."

Funny.  Who brought the Batcave into the living room to begin with?  I put on my stern look.

"Paul, you are big, right?  You can help Momma pick up the living room.  Now take the Batcave back to your room."

"Oh, okay, Mawma.  I stwong and big.  I CAN cawwy it." 

Duh.  But kudos for trying the cute route to get out of chores.

Lunchtime

"Paul, do you want some chicken for lunch?"

"No, Momma.  No chicken."

Ten minutes later.

"Momma, what you eating?"

"Chicken."

"Momma, I eat chicken too. Gib me chicken?"

And there goes lunch.

Mr. Strong Willed Boy Goes To Church

"Paul, do you think you can be a big boy and we can sit with Daddy and Rachel and Andy in the big church?"

He nods solomnly.  "Yes, Momma.  Sit in big chuch wif Daddy."

"And we have to be quiet, right?  And use our whisper voices, right?"

He nods again.  And whispers, "Yes, our whisser boices."

So we grab a pew 5 rows from the back.  Because I may be hopeful but dumb I am not. 

And we get through a song or two and then sit down for the first reading.  Paul's sitting nicely and he opens up his backpack to pull out his Power Rangers.  He gets all  6 of them out on his lap. 

Then, they started battling.  At first it was a non-verbal battle.  You know, the kind that only involves super kicks and super slams against each other.  But before the first reading was done, the Power Rangers had had enough of silently duking it out.

"Pshhh.  Pkwaah. Pkwaah.  Pfffffffgh."

I squeezed my eyes shut and hoped it stayed as small talk. 

No such luck.

"Pffwa!  Pchaa!  Pwow!"

I leaned over.  "Shh, Paul.  Shh.  Remember, use your whisper voice."

His face scrunched up.  "No, Mommy."

"Yes, whisper voice."

Apparently, I'm a doofus because the child put his Power Rangers down, reached up with one hand to turn my face toward him and in his best non-whisper voice said "No.  I say no, Mommy."

Power Rangers + church = non-whispering.  Oh, I get it now.

Christmas Day 2009

As the blizzard swept through our state on Christmas Eve, it was pretty obvious by late afternoon that no one was going anywhere for Christmas.  No grandparents, on any side, no Mass, no nothing. 

And I won't lie.  A calm spread over me with this realization.  We couldn't go anywhere.  There was no timetables to follow, no schedules to keep, no worrying about one Christmas running into another Christmas.  No dashing about the city from one place to another (although the reality of it is that we've spread Christmas out nicely over the past few years so there is no real dashing anywhere...but somehow the panicky feeling has never left me). 

And I loved it.  And the kids loved it.

Although the kids loved it for very different reasons.  And I truely hope that when they look back on their favorite Christmases, they remember this one because of the snow (according to the weather people, Oklahomans have only woken up to snow on the ground on Christmas morning 6 times in the past 106 years).  It was their white Christmas.

The sun came out full force that Christmas morning, which made the snow all the more beautiful.  We opened up Santa presents and other presents bright and early. 

Side note here...and an ironic one too...the one year, I repeat, the one year I go bonkers about the materialistic crap these kids get and stick to my vow to only get them a couple presents instead of more because "hey, they've got the grandparents, and aunts and uncles and quite frankly, that's plenty"...yeah, the one year I stick to the few presents idea is the one Christmas we get snowed in and can't get to the grandparents.  And you know what?  I think the kids would agree that the snow was the best present of all.

My adult neighbor texted me at 9am to challenge the kids to a snowman competition.  They were already out there as were the neighbor kids.  It was in and out all day long.  Cold fingers and cold toes. 

And it was the best Christmas.

Twas the Day Before Christmas

I woke up to the wind slamming little tiny ice pellets into our bedroom windows, which face north.  And not a gentle "tap-tap-tap."  It was machine gunfire.  Daisy and I stretch and got up.  I went to let her out back and when I opened up that door, which faces north, that dog door just blew straight up and didn't go back down.

The dog was not amused.  I ended up having to take her to the front where the wind wasn't a direct blast.

That should have been a sign of weather to come.  But this is Oklahoma and the weather doesn't follow signage or directions of any kind. 

But the ice pellets turned to flakes and for the whole of Christmas Eve, it got whiter and whiter. 

The dog thoroughly enjoyed the snow.  As you can see...

Little black dog with white spots!

Paul enjoyed it for moments at a time.  He kept running back to the front porch where the wind gusts wouldn't slam the snow/ice into his face.

It wasn't so much that there was snow/ice falling...in fact, there was NO snow/ice falling.  Snow/ice was blowing horizontal at 40 miles per hour.  It made for some good face making.

I included this picture to point out something.  It was cold.  24 degrees is nothing if the sun is out and the wind isn't blowing snow/ice into your face at 40 miles per hour.  It may appear that my daughter isn't suitably dressed here, but let me explain.  She had 2 pair of pajama flannels under her yellow jeans (which is why they're not buttoned, because they are skinny jeans to begin with and not meant to be stuffed with extra layers - I encouraged her to layer up with my bigger size jeans in the future), three shirts under that hoodie, gloves and her lumberjack hat on.  She was probably fairly warm for a bit.

The joy of snowballs.  Paul was being trained in the art.

Now this picture made the cut because it was taken in sequence with the one above and the ones below.  In the other pics, you can see the car in the background.  But for a moment when those 40 mph winds actually gust up a bit more and stir up the snow, it was a true whiteout.

I like the shades.  That's my boy.

The kids went in and out several times that day, braving the weather.  Uncle Jason drove over and didn't get to leave until late the next morning.  Highways were closed, people were stranded and our favorite line out of the evening news (aside from how quickly they dubbed this "Christmas Blizzard '09") was "if you get stranded, just go befriend someone and get out of the cold...knock on doors, befriend people."  Okay, I know it's Oklahoma and we are a fairly friendly bunch (ask anyone), but I doubt very many people are opening up their homes to perfect strangers on Christmas Eve.  That's just asking to be on Dateline's Unsolved Crimes. 

Why My House is So Cluttered

I don't like cleaning.  Hate it, in fact.  And as much as I would like to get organized and invite the Fly Lady or Martha Stewart or my neighbor over to help get the process moving along, it's pointless.

For example, this morning I began the routine pickup of items that have no business being anywhere outside the toybox.  Scooped up a Pokemon, five marbles, the Connect Four pieces, books, a stethoscope, a cement mixer, a train, 15 Bakugan, 432 Pokemon trading cards and you'd think I'd have a floor.

But no.  Because no sooner did I dump that lot into a toy box, I turned around and saw that Paul had systematically followed me around, placing Handy Manny's tools, 6 more Bakugan, fake food, books, the game pieces to Trouble, superheros and a light saber in the path of my cleanliness.

Sigh.

"I hewp you, Mawma."  As he opens up a pencil sharpener, not to see what's inside because it's clear and you can see that it's full of pencil shavings.  No, he opens it because he can.  "I hewp you."  And I hand him the little broom and dustpan and he dutifully sweeps up 3 shavings and looks at me.  "You hewp me, Mawma?" 

Why yes, I'd love to help.  You want to dump some red Koolaid on the floor too?  It's not like we have anything else to do.

Yup, today is National Sarcasm Day. 

Paul's Viewpoint

So, I was reading a cute "Little Critter" book to Paul and he points to the mother critter and says "dat you, momma."

"Yes, that's me!  I'm the momma."

He points to Little Critter and says "dat me, dat Pawl."

"That's Paul?"

"Uh-huh.  And dat's my bwudder.  Dat Anndy."  He points to the baby brother critter.

Does someone have their roles in the house mixed up or what?

Paul's Candle Blowing

I know it looks like 2 candles, but I promise there were 3.

One more to go!

Probably some spittle with that one.

One time, his brother exclaimed "watch me blow out the candles with my nose!"  And we all yelled "NO!"

And he ate the cupcake like a good little birthday boy!

Comedy, Toddler Style

"Mawma!"

"What?"

"Mawma!"

"Paul, are you eating your waffle?"

"Mawmma! Dos wawful go on mah eye?"

"No, silly boy! Not on your eye!"

(pleased giggle from the comedian)

"Mawm. Dos wawful go on mah noshe?"

"No! Silly Paul. Waffles don't go on your nose."

(more pleased giggles)

"Mawm! Dos wawful go on mah eeyr?"

"No-o-o-o-o."

(small snort from the comedian)

"Mawm! Dos wawful go in mah mouf?"

"No-oh! Not your mouth!"

(full on chuckles now that Mom is the comedian)

"Yesh, Mawmma! Wawful go in mah mouf!"

Wild Kingdom

In the wild, a smaller animal typically follows the lead of the stronger, more dominant sibling. Navigating through the terrain can be dangerous for young ones on their own and it is essential for siblings to stay close together.

Here we see two brothers, having temporarily escaped the watchful eye of their mother, bounding away from the safety of their burrow.

Common with most youth, the brothers do not pause to assess their surroundings before heading out into the open. They are only concerned with the here and now and satisfying their basic instincts to run free and play.

Because the water hole beckons and the young ones cannot resist.

As the older one crouches in preparation for a skilled and graceful dive into the cool water, he is caught off guard by his younger sibling.

Playful wrestling ensues.

At last they harken to the incessant scolding of their mother that playtime is over and it is time to resume their education in the wild. For she knows, all too well, that survival in the world requires much more than the simple skills learned in a waterhole.

Ah yes, education and school. It was a fabulous summer, though.

I Twow Up

Cough, cough. He leans over and tries to gag himself.

"Paul, stop. It's all over now. No more medicine!" In his defense, I tricked some Musinex down his throat. But I had a cup of Dr. Pepper in his hand as a bribe. Because normal kids want to wash away the nasty taste of medicine as fast as they can.

"I twow up!" His face is all scrunched up and his mouth hangs open.

"No, you're not going to throw up! It's all over! Take a drink of Dr. Pepper!" I'm hoping the excitement in my voice will make him see the light.

Cough, cough, almost gag. Tears, scrunched up face. He manages to get some saliva out of his mouth and on to the floor. Cough, cough, almost gag.

"Paul! Dr. Pepper!"

"I twow up," he whines.

"No, no throw up. Let's go watch Blue's Clues! Bring your Dr. Pepper!"

Deep breath, almost an eye-rolling sigh. "O-kaaaaaaaaaaaaay," he whimpers in his exasperated voice. And the incident is over, with zero vomit. However, getting medicine in him tomorrow will be trickier. I'm hoping that he remembers that the Musinex is purple and Zyrtec is not.

It's a Paul Post

So this video is Paul playing by himself at the table while I worked on the computer and while we waited for the "wice" (rice) to finish cooking. It's nothing special, just a boy playing like a boy. And it's cell phone footage, which makes for a clear Oscar nomination.

In other Paul news, he spouted a new word today. This has been the Summer of the Flies. Or rather, the Summer of the Flies on Meth. They don't just hang out at the window like normal flies; nope, they zoom from the window to the trash to the sink to the trash to the window to the sink to the trash and so on. THEN they end up in our bathroom, where, if you're really quiet and calm, you can hear them repeatedly power crash into the mirror. Again and again - bzzz, smack, bzzz, smack. Only a fly on meth would pull that crap.

And speaking of crap, the point of that little tidbit was to share with you Paul's new word. Every time I sent a fly to his demise today, Paul exclaimed "Oh cwap!" Smack goes the fly swatter, "oh, cwap!" goes my toddler. Oh yeah. Again with parenting at its finest.

But I cannot get over the leaps and bounds this kid has made in communication over the past few months. Things like "cwap" are nearly crystal clear, but milk is still "nup". Words aside, what strikes me is that he's listening and is spouting sentences too.

"Where my arm?" Issues with pulling a shirt on.
"I wan my woolbereen." Wolverine is quite popular still.
"My peet hot. Cawwy you." My feet are hot (on the concrete). Carry me.
"I wub you. See you in mowmee." I love you and see you in the morning.

And then there are these conversations:

"Mommy, I wan mosshters."

"Musketeers? You want to watch Three Musketeers?"

"No. Maaaashters." He looks at me with high expectations.

"Monsters? Like Monsters, Inc.?" I ask hopefully.

"No. MAAAASHTERS. MAAAAAASHTERS." His voice rises because obviously I'm not hearing him.

I'm scrambling in my head for anything resembling that. "Mashters? What is that, baby? You want to eat something?"

"No, mahshters."

I'm still struggling here. And he knows it.

And that's when he takes my face in both his hands and puts his own face an inch and a half away from mine and (I swear he's got a condescending tone at this point) says, "mahshters." And he's so dern cute and so dern serious that I can help but smother him with kisses while giggling at him and I say the only thing I can think of to get me out of this mess,

"You want a cookie?"

And all thoughts of mashters are gone. Whatever the heck they were to begin with.

Paulsicles

Lazy summer evenings plus Hulk green popsicles


equals

"Wan mowr pah sil?"

Recipe for Little Boys

Take 1 "Y" chromosome.


Combine with a pound of dirt (measure accurately here, as the dirt and "Y" chromosome compliment each other well).


Add equal amounts cuts, scrapes and bruises (try not to overdo this one, but sometimes you can't help it).


Stir in some willpower and stubborness.


Add a heaping dash of sweetness and charm.


Add a ball of energy. Heck, if you're feeling a bit daring, add several balls of energy.

Mix well. Spread it all over your house and sprinkle with Legos and action figures.

Sit back and enjoy!

Recliner Snoozin

Don't you just hate it when your head slumps over like this in the recliner?



Ugh. Umpff. Snork.

Much better.

(And this was my first attempt at Photoshop Elements, in which I have no clue what I'm doing and apparently, my baby looks a bit bright - Oh well, no harm done).

A Gripe with Photo Shoots

I'm all for fun photo shoots. Whimsical and creative. And heck, I'm not necessarily opposed to the vintage photos if you happen to be at Silver Dollar City or a tour of a gold rush town.

But this below? Is not okay.

Does my baby look even remotely happy to be dressed up in knickers, a puffy shirt and suspenders? (Yes, these are photos of photo proofs)

Wait, it gets better.

I know my baby pretty well and I'm fairly certain he protested when they started shoving him into the clothes, much less began posing him and telling him to look happy. You do see that lower lip in the mirror, right? And the tear on his face on the left?

Sigh. Come on. It's bad enough that they con me into "school pictures" 2-3 times a year, but to torture my son with this kind of nonsense?

That is not my baby.


This is my baby.

Thing One and Thing Two

"What kind of fun could we have today?" said Thing One to Thing Two.

"Our trykes!" said Thing Two to Thing One.

"Should we stay on the sidewalk like good little boys?" said Thing One to Thing Two.

"I do enjoy your witty sense of humor," said Thing Two to Thing One.

My neighbor and I decided the toddlers were too, um, smart to be Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They are more like the box 'o fun Thing One and Thing Two from the Cat in the Hat (Dr. Suess could rhyme, I didn't even try).

"What, pray tell, could be in the neighbor's yard, just above this wall?"


"This isn't what birdbaths are for?"


A smaller, straight and really nothing like it, version of the Daytona Speedway for trykes. To the puddles, turn around and back to the street.

Thing One cuts off Thing Two to make the sharp, one-eighty turnaround. It's brutal out there, folks.


What does the winner get? First one back to the drainage ditch gets first toss of a pebble into the drains. First runner up throws in a pebble too. Competition is stiff, but really, everyone wins.

I love my neighborhood.

For all you moms out there (or dads) thinking to yourself that you would never allow your toddler to play in the street, I need to share our thought process here. The credit actually goes to my neighbor, who came up with this neat rule.

But before I do, let me at least defend ourselves here. Our neighborhood is teeming with kids that play in the street. From teenagers down to the younger kids and it is almost impossible to keep the toddlers out of the street. The fact of the matter is that teaching your kid a bit of street smart sense isn't a bad idea and we just feel like we're better off going with the tide than fighting it.

Here's the rule: yes, the kids play in the street. Usually there is a parent outside and if not, it's because one or more of the older kids is on temporary street patrol. When a parent yells out "Car!" because one has been spotted, the kids are to get out of the street and onto the curb. And then wave at the oncoming car.

That's the important part. By waving at the car, the driver knows that the kid sees them and is not as likely to go waltzing in front of their vehicle. It reassures older drivers and annoys the heck out of cool teenagers who don't want to wave at kids but feel obliged to do it anyway. It's a win-win situation.

And I'm happy to announce that Thing One and Thing Two are sitting at a B average for following this rule. We still have to march over to them from time to time and get into their faces and yank them onto the curb. But a B average is much better than a fail rate. We'll get to an A average soon, I'm sure of it.