Overheard

Today was a red-letter day. I got puked on for the very first time. Then got puked on two more times. Now, puke is very different than just plain old baby spit up. My sons set the bar for baby spit up. Danny was a projectile spitter. Owen's spit up was just copious.

My daughter never spit up. She was the one who bathed me in puke three times today. By the third time, I finally figured out the pattern: hiccups-"hold me"-hurl. Hopefully, she's better by her birthday party on Saturday morning.

Oh, and the baby is getting two teeth. At the same time. And he's practically standing on his own. And, no, he's still not sleeping much better. He still gets up several times a night, refuses to go back down quietly and, for a few days in a row this week, got up for the day before 6 a.m.  He's the world's biggest asshole.  Good thing he's cute and snuggly. 

Danny is, well, himself. Since he's not napping these days, we've been spending a lot more time together. He's learning to read. He's very upset that he can't read. One night last week, we heard a ruckus upstairs and went to check on him. He was flailing around in his bed, screaming:

I can't read the words.  Classic first born behavior.


We play with a set of magnetic letter tiles that fit together like puzzle pieces. He's been spelling out words: Pam (his preschool teacher), ham, bam and, of course, dam.

See, mom, it's a dam word, he told me. Aw, shit.
You be sure to tell people that a dam holds back water, okay, kid?

Don't say that word, he tells us when we curse. I swear, I'll stop cursing so much when the baby starts sleeping better. 
I'm putting this play dough away since no one is playing with it, I yell to the kids who have moved on to the playroom. Hey. Wait a minute. Hey, get your butts in here and clean this up.



Story time's over. Now it's scream time, Jim says to Fiona. Every night she screams her head off at bed time no matter how much attention and stories she has.

PopPop. Toothpick, Fiona says out of the blue one night. I love the associations my kids make with the people in their life.

No poop on the floor, Fiona says to us.
Yeah, you just put everything else on the floor, Jim says. She keeps a very messy room these days. Sometimes I can barely walk on the floor.



Thank you for food. Baby Jesus. Skin-a-ma-rink. Amen.  Danny's dinner prayer one night. Skin-a-ma-rink is from a song they sing at preschool.

Sitting, but not at the actual table

Dear Lord, Please help our children sit down to eat. Mommy's dinner prayer one night. They were particularly antsy that night.


SHE GOT IN MY WAY, Danny bellows after mowing down his sister from behind.
Danny, 'your way' is not where other people are standing. You have to find a clear path, I explain to the apparent center of the universe.



YEAH, you're going to leave, Danny exclaims when he finds out that he's staying overnight at Nana and PopPop's. And don't let the door hit you on the way out, Daddy.


How 'bout this? I clean up the playroom and you take a bath. 
I don't want to take a bath. 
Well, I don't want to clean up this mess. 
Ah, the double misery strategy.

Oh, no, Owie, you eat at the table like the rest of us, Jim says as Owie books it toward the remains of dinner that Jim was sweeping up.

What are you doing? Jim asks Danny who is sitting on the edge of his bed one night with a finger up his nose.
Just getting some boogers out, he says.

I don't have any underwear, Danny bellows.
Get some out of Fiona's drawer. She has plenty, I tell him. He quite literally pees his pants twice as often as she does. On laundry day, (which is almost every day, now that I think of it) I fold eight pairs of underwear for three pairs of hers. And he actually was not upset about donning her underwear.

Till next week or sooner ... I've got a lot on my mind these days.