Overheard

This week's column is a little thin on content. Most of what I've heard this week falls into two categories: the pterodactyl shrieks of a frustrated 2 year old and the endless chatter and questions of a 4 year old. Who knew that 4 year olds talked so much? And why the heck didn't anyone tell me about this?
 
I'm just brain numb this week. I can't keep up with them. I can't wear them out. I can no longer predict what they're going to do next.

Case in point ...

I came into Danny's room after "quiet time" and caught my 4 year old with one leg over the side of his bunk bed.

Whatcha doing, Danny? I ask casually.
I'm climbing over the railing and hanging by my hands and jumping. 


See, that's what I like about boys. They'll tell you exactly what they're doing because they honestly don't think they're doing anything wrong. My daughter, on the other hand, just stares at me and refuses to tell me. And, no, I don't think it's because she's only two.


My husband later told me when I related this story: Well, that is the safest way to jump. Only a Meehan who had jumped that way from a second story window when he was 10 years old would say such a thing. They did not get this from my side of the family. 

I then decided that I should go take a shower while the baby was still napping. I mean, what's the worst that can happen, right? I'd already made it clear that jumping from the top bunk is now banned.

I come out to find boy wonder standing on his upturned hamper trying to start the washing machine. He had wet his sheets and was putting his stuff in the wash. This kind of makes up for the whole jumping off the top bunk thing.

Later that night, Jim came down and informed me that the two older kids had torn off pieces of Owen's crib mattress that was under Danny's loft. We'd put it there for when Owen moves in. Now it is ruined. They're in the hole once again.

And all this after a day when I tried mightily to wear their little butts out with a walk and bike ride on the Tobacco Trail, lunch out and swimming. Good thing my kids don't eat a lot of sugar.

Enjoy ...

What is that? Jim asks of the piece of asphalt that Danny is holding.
It's asphalt. He likes to carry it around.

Ten minutes later at home:

You can't bring that in the house. It was born in the outdoors and it will stay out there. It's wild asphalt, Danny, Jim says. Danny was not happy about this.

I pooped on top of my underwear, Fiona informs me. Oh. (Not really, though.)

So I put ice cubes in the cup and we'll come back later and see how much water the melted ice cubes added to the cup, I explained to Danny. He had wanted to know if the ice in his cup would overflow when it melted. (It didn't.)
Okay, let's go hide, he replied. Um, that's hole other game, dear.

Danny, maybe Owen could go in your hideout with you, I told him.  Owen was screaming indignantly at being excluded.
No, no, I can't. It's too good.


I want to sit on the red seat. I want to sit on the red seat. I want to sit on the red seat, Danny whined. Then ... he hears his buddy next door outside. I want to play with Josh. Short attention span strikes again.


Danny, please just stop talking. 
No, I need to talk. 
Why? 
Because I have a mouth. 

What comes after five, Fiona? I asked her as I held up a thumb on my left hand while holding up five fingers on my right.
Thumb, Fiona said. I honestly didn't know the child could count to five.


He's about to eat the paper. Does he know he's about to eat the paper? my mom asks as Owen is eating an ice cream cone.
It's okay, mom. The kid eats toilet paper. I'm not to worried about it. 

Have a great weekend. Enjoy the cooler weather! I know I will.