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Friday, August 4, 2006 - 06:00
Earlier today, I was playing "Pretty, Pretty Princess" on the floor with Gracie (I was TOTALLY winning...I had two earrings, a necklace and a ring. She only had two necklaces) when William walked into the room, chewing.
"What is William eating?" I called. "He's eating something?" was the response. "Yeah," I said. "He just walked in here chewing." "What does he have?" "Don't know," I said, inspecting his empty mouth. "It's gone now."
No worries. It was just what we've come to call Floor d'Oeuvres.
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Friday, July 28, 2006 - 06:00
Kitchen or kids: It's the proposition that follows dinner each night in our house. It basically means, "Do you want to clean up the post-dinner mess or kick-start the kids' PM routine?" Don't jump too quickly, as there is no easy answer.
Answering "kitchen" could mean scrubbing a mountain of dishes and/or pots and pans, plus cutlery, the counter tops, the table and so on. With some luck, the dishwasher will actually be empty (a rarity), the trash can won't be overflowing (an unparalleled event) and the evening's "chef" would have tidied up as the cooking went along (a bona-fide miracle).
Selecting "kids" is even riskier.
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Friday, July 21, 2006 - 13:54
I like to think that I have a handle on the 3-year-old language. "Doesn't your three-year-old speak English?" you ask. Well yes, but she uses the toddler dialect. Here's an example.
Earlier today, we were at the grocery store picking up a pack of diapers and some milk. On the way home, Grace announced that she wants to play with "...that toy" when we got home. "Which toy is that?" I ask her. "That toy you put on your knee," she answered.
Hmm. That toy you put on your knee. My mind set to work on the problem. "Grace," I said, "What is the toy that you put on your knee?" "You know that toy," she said, laughing dismissively at what must have been a joke on my part. "Oh, no, I sure don't," I thought.
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Friday, July 14, 2006 - 12:19
Earlier this week, I took the kids to the YMCA for Gracie's swimming lesson. In preparation, I packed my small travel bag with the usual accouterment, including a small Tupperware of Goldfish crackers and a modest selection of toys, all intended to occupy William while he and I waited for Grace.
Everything was going well until we walked in the door. As soon as we broke the threshold, William freaked. I'm talking about the red-faced, fist-clenched, curled-toes howl that makes onlookers think "Oh, look, here comes the world's worst father, evidenced by his own son's five-alarm wail."
I've got a theory about William's odd reaction. It seems he only does this when we're in commercial buildings that have a receptionist area. Call me crazy, but I'm sure he believes were at the pediatrician's office.
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