He's very close to walking on his own. He walks holding one of my hands. Fiona tries to grab his other hand, but so far, he's not having it. I don't think he trusts her and I can't say that I blame him. Up until this week, she would clobber him every time I turned my back on her.
And he has a few new words: Sit, which sounds an awful lot like "shit," and Danny.
The kids have been happy and playing outside quite a bit. They found a mud puddle. And Jim spanned scrap lumber between two trees and they've been climbing that all week. Then Jim attached a ball on a string to the clothesline for batting practice.
It's a regular fun park back there.
Danny is just plain fun lately. He's learning to ride a bike (with training wheels) in the court across the street. He's starting to interact with his brother more. He's even taken to mopping the floor. I couldn't get our new mop away from him the other day. It's not that I want to discourage this activity, I just don't want puddles of cleaning solution all over the floor.
I'm slowly figuring out my sweet, schizophrenic little Fiona. When Owen is napping and Danny is at preschool, she helps me get dinner ready and then we do puzzles. This was what I envisioned us doing last fall when Danny started preschool. It took us this long to get into a rhythm with school and naps and for her to be receptive to, well, anything at all. She's alternately sweet and devious, cuddly and vicious. I often just don't know what to do with her. She doesn't know what to do with herself.
|Lemonade AND Cranberry juice|
Do you want lemonade or cranberry juice?
I give her the lemonade.
NO, she cries, I want cranberry.
One thing she is clear on?
Are you a girl? I ask as she's pointing out pictures of girls in her book.
No, I'm Nona. And I'm a sister. Got it.
Let's go change you're Pull Up.
No. Long pause, icy stare. Don't touch me.
You're gonna die, she tells me rather gleefully. Lovely. Good thing we put the knives up higher.
No, no, Fi, pull your pants up. You don't pee on the tree. My son has been dropping trou and peeing in the backyard lately. So, of course, monkey do wants to try it, too.
I have a penis, Fiona tells me.
No, honey, you have a vagina.
I need to wipe my penis, she says. My daughter has a serious case of penis envy.
I need to get a trumpet to blow and wake you up, mommy, Danny says. As if three little kids staring at me while I hide under the covers isn't enough of a wake up call.
Did you just wipe your nose on the carpet? I asked Danny. He was not wearing a shirt, which is where he usually wipes his nose. Then I noticed that we were out of toilet paper. So naturally, the hall carpet and the bathmat were the next best things.
What are you doing?
I'm licking the dirt off my knee. Of course you are.
Watch, mom. I'm gonna do a backflip, Danny says. He was standing on the picnic table bench about to plop backward into a pile of leaves from last fall.
Don't wipe your nose on [the clean laundry].
I'm not. I'm trying to get a drink of water. He was sucking the water from a comforter on the clothesline. Boys are so, um, interesting.
Ugh, I'm so tired of the kids wiping snot on me. Owen has been wiping his nose on me all day.
I tried to teach him yesterday how to use his sleeve, Jim says. Um, you failed. I am still the preferred handkerchief around here.
Here's hoping the river of snot leaves us soon.