It's been a whirlwind around here. Try to keep up.
Danny got into a school and not just any school. This was our first choice school, a project-based, child centered environment that mirrors our values. So I've gone from being alternately committed to and resigned to homeschooling to being alternately excited and terrified about sending my first born to school. They literally drew his name out of a hat. He went to a kindergarten screening last week and it seems to have gone well. I gathered that he was asked to draw a picture of a person and he decided that he wanted to draw a car instead. He says he put the person inside the car, possibly inside the wheel. Whatever.
The stomach bug cannot seem to find its way out of our house. It's been going around in vicious circles here for about a month. Luckily, I've had it only once. Although, my husband had it most recently and spent the entire day in bed, so I'm wondering who's really the lucky one here. And the children can't seem to stop wetting their beds in one creative way or another. I've been doing an obscene amount of laundry. Owen told me the other day when the washing machine was running, Go downstairs. Loud noises.
My little Owen is a suicidal billy goat who is still nursing but I convinced him today that almond milk was booby juice. And his language skills are fascinating. He's grasped the concept of "enough," informing me just today that I had not given him enough dip for his carrots. He has thoughts that go beyond mere observation, such as these ones:
Take it outside, mommy, Owen instructs me when he finds a bug in the house.
Get water, Owen says when he tries to sit on a hot swing at the park.
Yet, he still babbles. Loudly.
What is he saying?
Gumbo sneet bot, Danny says.
Oh. What does that mean?
Throw that stuff in the compost.
Danny is officially my new translator. In addition, the boy is a ball of physical and mental and emotional energy that, if harnessed, could probably power New York City for a year.
Is yellow cheese made from yellow milk, mom? Danny asks.
How can I get my freckles off?
When will I get hair on my face?
Do we have hair on our butts?
Why do girls grow up to be mommies?
How come boys don't have babies? I am so not ready for this.
Look, my watermelon is melting. Um, no, it's just dripping, dear.
Look, I have milk bubbles on my spoon.
Look, mom, the poop went down into the gobbler, he says. The gobbler, it turns out, is the hole in the toilet bowl.
Danny, what are you doing? I ask as I watch him put his ear up to various spots in the bathroom.
I'm hearing the bathroom.
And if Danny could power New York City, my 3 year old could probably break every window in the Empire State Building with her deafening, dramatic outbursts.
I broke my celery, Fiona wails.
You mean you bit it?
Yeah. Oh, the drama never ends with this one.
MINE. MINE. MINE, Fiona screams.
Nothing is yours, you just got down here, I tell her. Seriously, this child has a distorted view of property rights.
In addition to all the drama and noise, the children have utterly fantastic logic:
You need to calm down or go outside, I tell Danny.
No, no, there's a carpet. I am continually amazed at my son's ability to connect two seemingly unrelated ideas as an argument in favor of his viewpoint. Reminds me of a few politicians I know, actually.
Danny, please don't yell.
No, no, I have to yell to stop Owen from yelling. Yep, that's 5 year old logic for you. Or mommy logic on a bad day.
But I need my leotard to play tic tac toe, Fiona explains. Really? I had no idea.
And then there's the burgeoning smart-assery:
I've got to go to the bathroom, Jim announces while we were out to dinner.
Well, go then, Danny replies. When the heck did he get a smart mouth?
Dad, are you a man?
You need to start fires and go camping.
File these under things that I never thought I would say:
Danny, you don't need a tennis racket to poop. He was sitting on the toilet with a tennis racket and a ball.
Don't yell at the fruit, I tell Fiona. She couldn't stab her kiwi with her toothpick. So she yelled at it.
Have a great weekend. And don't yell at the fruit.