Overheard

"I am Fiona ... hear me roar."

It's the week before Christmas, but I guess you all know that. I just find it so hard to believe. The Christmas hype, which I try so hard not to participate in, seems to be seeping into my children's subconscious. They've been cranky and rather bonkers the past two weeks, which is why I skipped last week's edition of "Overheard." I just know you all noticed and your lives were incomplete.

So let's see. What's new? Owen is crawling, full speed on hands and knees. And he's pulling up and cruising. He's 7.5 months old. My mother keeps asking what the heck I'm breeding over here. I told her that I must have steroids in my breast milk. At least he started waking only once after midnight instead of twice recently. I feel like a new woman.

Not really.

Though it has given me just enough energy to do some holiday baking, which is good because I would totally resent this child if I didn't get to make my old favorites—cocoa candy crinkles and sausage bread—and indulge in some new recipes—sugared almonds and white chocolate cranberry fudge.

Fiona is well on her way to being mostly potty trained before she turns 2 at the end of January. I know that I'm a fool for even putting this in writing. One night this week as I explained to her that poop belongs in the potty, not on the floor or the fridge (yes, she actually smeared poop on my fridge), I looked at my husband and said, "Do you get the feeling that she's actually comprehending this?" And he said, incredulously, "Yes, I do."  This morning, I found her at the potty trying to take her diaper off to put her poop in the potty. She's smart, this one. I fully expect that to bite us in the ass. Soon.

And last week, Danny had his four year old check up with our beloved Dr. Greene. He aced the eye exam (knew all his letters and complied with Nurse Wanda's requests, too) and his hearing exam and got a few shots. Danny had quite a bit to say about the shots:

She can't do that. That's not capprofriate. Um, that would be "appropriate." We've been getting a lot of that lately. Apparently, we live in a very inappropriate house these days.


And this ...

That's not a nice, good idea, Danny says to Nurse Wanda, who graciously tried to keep a straight face.


You know, you can go poop at preschool, Danny. 
I can't. The potty is little. [The poop] will stick out.

I can't wait till you go to bed, kid, I say to a fussy Owie at dinnertime.
Why? He does the same thing at night, Jim points out.
Oh, yeah, I forgot. There is no escape.

Danny, your nose is runny. You need to rest, I tell him one morning.
No, no, I can do this, he says as he wipes his nose on his arm. Yuck.

Don't say that, mommy, unless you're in the car, Danny tells me after he hears me say "Son of a bitch."

Sharing: It's the use of one product by two people without screaming, kicking or biting. Jim's definition of sharing. This never happens here.


Use a word, Fiona. I'm trying to cut down on the full body hyper-whine she's got going on. 
Word, she says.

No, me cup, don't, she tells me one morning after I take a sip of her juice. See? She knows words.

Can you say yes? we ask her.
No, she says. Sigh. At least she's not screaming "No" a hundred times a day anymore.

Danny, use the hamper for it's intended purpose, Jim says.
Yes, for my head, Danny replies and runs off naked with a mesh hamper over his head. I wonder if he knows that he's being a smart ass.

Have a great weekend, all.