Overheard

This week has been a blur. (See yesterday's post for details.) I pray that someone reminds me of weeks like this one when I start thinking another baby would be nice. Actually, someone please just remind me of everything from birth to age three--from the all night newborn buffet right on up to the potty training that never ends. 'Kay?

Thanks in advance.

That said, I do love my kids. I love watching them change and grow and learn. And I love being at home to watch it all, even if it means I don't get much sleep. This week I've noticed many things about my babies that I just love.

For instance, Owen is deciding what he thinks is funny. It's things like his sister splashing in the bathtub or him throwing a plate on the floor to hear the satisfying clatter it makes or a car that he pushes across the floor himself. And dogs barking? Always funny.

Fiona is, well, changing too fast to even put my finger on what's different. She's just got so much personality and despite her vicious streak, she really tries to take care of her brother, alerting me when he's near the stairs or picking up his cup when he drops it or trying to shove food in his mouth. She and I bird watch and make cookies and do play dough while Danny is at preschool and Owen is napping. When she's not trying to wreck the joint, she's a pretty neat little girl.

Danny is learning to be conversational. He wants to talk and is learning to wait his turn. When I tell him that I can't help him right this minute, he stands there patiently and says "I can wait." Blows. My. Mind. Every time.

And his vocabulary has exploded in the past few weeks. Now his clock is beautiful, mommy's food is delicious and he asks questions like this:

Do you want a disease? No thanks, son. I already have a disease. It's called child-induced insomnia.

Yet, he still says things like this:
That sofa has an audioman. (He means "ottoman.")

Can you just leave me a lone for five minutes?
Not today! he chirps. Damn. It's just not my day.



Don't say that word, mommy. Say shoot. Shoot's a basketball word. He says this whenever I curse or say anything with even the least bit of emotion.

Do you want to help [in the garden]?
Not today! he chirps yet again.


You're not in charge here, kid, I tell him Danny after he starts bossing me around in the garden.
But I have a dump truck!
Just because you have a dump truck does not mean you are in charge.

Let's not talk about butts and poop when Uncle Paul and Aunt Rosalie are here, okay?  
Yeah, let's talk about sluts. He's been experimenting with rhyming words lately. I get kind of nervous when he starts talking about ducks and trucks.

Is everybody happy? I ask after doling out snacks in the van after our grocery run.
Not me, Danny sings. Fiona and Owen stared blankly back at me. This job is just so thankless sometimes ...

What the heck are you doing? Danny asked.
Me? You're the one wearing a cereal box, I tell him. What the heck are you doing?

Owie pulled my hair, Fiona tells me. She's getting to be quite the little tattle tale. Oh, and Owen is starting to stick up for himself.

Bob bit me, Fiona says. (I seriously doubt this.)
Did you put your hand in his mouth?
Yeah. 

Have to play with me, Fiona whined repeatedly one morning. I finally understood her the fourth time she said it.


Waiting our turn, Fiona chanted while we waited in the McDonald's drive-through line. After all mommy's backyard turn-taking negotiations, she finally "gets it" in the McDonald's drive-through lane.

I finished off the [chocolate] robin eggs. They were going to expire in November, Jim says. Uh, thanks.

Honey, we're all out of marshmallows. You shot them all. (We got him a marshmallow gun.)
Wait a minute! We can shoot Cheerios. Yeah, because there just aren't enough Cheerios on the floor around here.

Have a great weekend! See you Monday.