|They play together very well.|
Worms don't have eyes. I'm sure this information will come in handy eventually.
I'm also getting to know Fiona better. One thing for sure is that this little girl is determined and focused and talkative.
Honey, you're arms are not long enough to reach that, I tell Fiona who is trying to reach for the second ring on the monkey bars at the park.
That's poop, she tells me with a determined look. Five minutes later, she reached the second ring. Basically, my daughter looked at me, said the preschooler equivalent of "bullshit," and did it.
Yet she can be rather indecisive. It's maddening.
Do you want grapes?
No. Yes. And she usually says yes just as I'm turning back toward the fridge.
Are you going to finish that? I ask.
I don't like it. I do like it.
I like it. I don't like it, she repeats. Sigh. I hope she gets this one under control before she starts dating.
Mom, you have a boo boo on your chin. You need a Tinker Bell Band-Aid, Fiona tells me.
And THEN my pajamas were bleeding, Fiona says. She and Owen had a head on collision in the hallway. As she said, there was blood everywhere.
Mommy, I'm singing about vicodin, Fiona says.
Um, what, honey?
VACUUMING. I'm singing about vacuuming. Oh, good.
Even though they are easier on me than Danny, Owen and sometimes even Fiona are adding exponentially to the list of no-nos that I never thought had to be verbalized.
Owen, get off the drawer. It is not a stool. He pulls out the bottom drawer in the kitchen and stands on it to watch me cook.
Owen, don't jump in the sink. He does this after I change his diaper. The changing table is on the bathroom counter.
Owen, is there poop in your bed? I ask him.
Yes. Change my sheets again, he says. Lovely. I change his sheets several times a week because he can't keep his hands out of his pants and winds up sleeping with his fire hose pointing up.
Oh my God, are you licking all the clean spoons? STOP.
Oooohh, I spilled water, Fiona says. Next thing I know ...
No, no, Fiona, here's a rag. Don't lick the floor. (I know that I don't own a mop anymore, but seriously?)
Are you going to take a nap today? I ask Owen.
Are you not going to take a nap today? (I was trying to trick him.)
Yes, he replied. D'oh. Outsmarted by a 2 year old.
Sit down in that cart or I swear I will glue you to the seat, I seethed at Owen and Fiona in Target.
Mom, can you get the gum off my foot? Want to see my poop? Danny asks, all in the same breath. Wow, where do I start?
Mom, I pooped and I didn't flush it. Want to come see it? Danny says as soon as I get home. It's curly, he continues. When will they stop summoning me to inspect their poop?
I just had underpants on and now they're gone, Fiona wails with her pants around her ankles. I have no idea how that could happen.
Do you know how to stop, Fiona? Jim asks repeatedly as she bikes down a hill at the park. She randomly uses her breaks and her shoes.
No, I don't, she called back. Wonder of wonders, she came down the hill AND managed to round a curve without falling.
Shit, Jim says as he fixes something with his little assistant, Owen.
Shit, Owen repeats.
No, no, I said shoot, Jim replies.
Shoot, Owen repeats.
What's that? the kids asked when Jim turned the channel to a tennis match.
That's tennis. They play it on a ping pong table, Jim tells them. And, I kid you not, they all yelled at the TV: GET OFF THE TABLE.
Danny, did you hear the words coming out of my mouth? I ask after he'd requested one too many repeats that day.
No, he replies. And his father snickered. It's the beginning of man's disease. I pity his future wife.
Have a great week!