Tracking Santa

Every year we enjoy tracking Santa Claus on NORAD's official Santa Tracker Web site. We were just checking out all of the videos of where he's been already this year, and Porter wanted to see it all.

I silently scrolled the mouse over Africa, and Po said "Yeah, Africa!"

Whoa! Huh? "Porter, how do you know that's Africa?"

"I'm just a smart guy."

And this is news? "Do you know any other continents?" I inquired.

"Yes."

"Which ones?"

"Let's check out New York."

"Okay," I giggled. "Any others?"

"Yes. College."

Let's Stick to the Point

The point is not that I watch a cheesy-ass show like "Sing-off." I repeat. It is not.

I was watching said show on the DVR when Po woke up from his nap today. He happily watched the last thirty minutes with me, but, of course, asked a million questions. "What is this show all about?"

"It's a contest. A cappella singing groups compete to see who sounds the best. A cappella means that you perform music without instruments, so it's just voices."

Po thought for a moment, and said "When they use a microphone, the voice is an instrument."

Overenthusiastic About Lunch

I just announced that I would be making chicken apple sausage for lunch today.

Po's response?

"Damn! I love sausage!"

Stop Sassing

Wow. Po is killing me with the sass today! He has said all sorts of things, but the thing that almost made me cry and burst out laughing at the same time happened while we were at the car wash.

Po wasn't listening very well, so I "benched" him, literally. He wasn't too happy about it, so all sorts of inappropriate things were coming out of his mouth. I demanded that he "stop sassing me immediately."

"Mommy, do you see that stop sign right there?" Po responded, pointing to a stop sign across the street.

"Yes, Po, I do."

"Well, it's for you. It means you stop sassing me immediately."

Really? I'm opening the betting for whether he makes it to dinner tonight.

Every Excuse

I made some fish for dinner tonight that Po wasn't particularly fond of, but he had to eat a certain portion of it in order to earn some Trader Joe's Yogurt Stars, something he selected for desert.

At first he couldn't eat the fish because it was "too hot."

After I assured him it was at perfect toddler eating temperature, he was convinced that he didn't "like the black stuff in there." Invisible black stuff, unless you have bionic paranoid toddler-vision.

Once I convinced him that there was no black stuff to be found, he didn't "like the white stuff." Yes, there was an abundance of white stuff. In fact, the entire fish was white, so I started to suspect he had an angle.

"Well, Po, it's your choice. Eat it and get Yogurt Stars, or walk away."

Then I walked away for about ten seconds, and, suddenly, Campbell, who LOVED the fish and was happily eating Yogurt Stars, started hysterically crying, as if some injury had occurred.

I raced back into the room. "WHAT is going on?!"

Po explained, "She doesn't want me to eat the fish."

Boycotting the Stew

I made Lisa's Famous Dark Beer Stew for dinner tonight. It's a favorite of the grownups and big kids, but the littles turn their nose up every time. We still make them sit in front of a bowl of it and have a slice of bread.

We tried to convince Po to eat some of it. If he would try, he really would like it. I asked him what he didn't like about it.

"Well, I really don't like the vegetables."

"Then eat the meat," Daddy retorted.

"I'm not a carnivore."

"Then you should have no problem eating the vegetables," Daddy shot back.

"Well, I'm not a herbivore, either."

My conclusion: He's a carbivore.

Leaves

Between the ones the dogs have kicked-up from rambunctious backyard play and those my husband trailed in from grilling last night, I think there are more leaves in our house than there are on the trees in our yard.

When I woke up this morning, I announced. "Wow! Look at all of the leaves in here! I need to vacuum."

Po said, "Well, Mommy, I told you it was fall."

A Conflict of Interest

When I gave birth to Po ten years after B's mom gave birth to him, I never imagined the brotherly rivalry that would occur. I imagined the wise older brother guiding the little chap, joyfully gazing into each others' eyes. Holding hands. Eating pizza. First beers at 31 and 21.

Errrrrrt!

Someone once put it to me this way: B and Po...they meet somewhere around age seven.

So, basically, I have seven-year-old twin boys. Do you have more sympathy for me, now?

The most common issue is that B (13) tries to play with one of Po's (3) toys that he hasn't even glanced at for at least two weeks or two months. Then Po freaks as if the million dollar lottery ticket has suddenly been plucked from his saintly hands. Then B plays the most masterful game of keep-away, demanding that Po listen to his parental lesson about how he wasn't even using it, and how he needs to ask nicely and wah wah wah wah wah wah out of the Charlie Brown teacher's edition. The reasoning goes on and on beyond any reasonable attention span for a person in a coma, much less an anxious and wronged three-year-old.

My problem: No matter how many times we go through this, I can't convince the teen thing that he's not a parent, and I can't convince the toddler thing that he's not the Tasmanian devil. When the two collide, I sometimes feel I deserve a stiff drink or some sort of medal of honor. Or both.

This evening we had some friends over for dinner, and just as we're clearing the table, and they are packing up to leave, and all the kids are going ape-shit and the parents are ready to loose their freaking minds, the parental teen thing decides it would be a good time to find a toy that the toddler thing hasn't used in a while.

You should know enough now. I don't have to go into the details. Fast-forward to the toy being confiscated and apologies being said to the friends and the teen thing sulking in his room, isolated from the chaos he artfully arranged.

I put the littles in the bath and summoned the teen thing.

"I get the feeling you aren't listening to me," I say to B, "and I get the feeling you don't think I'm listening to you. So you talk as long as you like, and I won't say a thing. I'll just listen. You let me know when I can respond. You're in charge of when I can talk."

A suppressed smile came across his face. The littles were splashing happily in the tub while I sat on the closed toilet and B sat on the bathroom counter.

I truly listened, and the teen thing rambled some stuff about how he wanted Po to listen to him, and how Po shouldn't throw a fit, and how, bottom line: "Po doesn't play with the stuff and only shows interest when I pick it up!"

I understand and understood, then instructed him on how to maybe, when there's a conflict with Po, not go on and on and on beyond the attention span of a three-year-old. The teen thing hasn't gotten it and still doesn't really get it. Everyone is a peer in his eyes. So I gave him a script for the future:

"When you have taken something of Po's and he is freaking because he wants it back, if only because you have it, just say 'Po, please stop freaking out and ask me for it nicely like a big boy.' Po knows what that means, and it's all but guaranteed that he'll ask nicely. If he doesn't, just come to me and say 'Kristen, I need help.' Don't take matters into your own hands. I know you love the Harry Potter battles, but I don't want to see them in our home."

After some going back and forth, I think B and I ended up having a really constructive conversation. So he went on with his evening, and I with mine, bathing the littles. Luckily Daddy had arrived home during the teen-thing conversation, so I didn't have to go the remainder of the evening alone.

And I could walk away from the bathtub to pour myself a cocktail.

When I came back, Po said "Mommy, brother and I have a conflict sometimes, and I don't like it when he just snatches my thing from my hands. It really causes a conflict, and I don't like to have a conflict with brother, so, I was thinking that we shouldn't have a conflict and that brother should just give me the thing because that's the cause of the conflict so that we don't have a conflict because it really irritates me when he takes something from me and we have a conflict."

"Really? Really." I'm flabbergasted.

"Yeah," Po continues, "and I think you need to tell Campbell that she always causes a conflict, too. When she takes things from me, it is the cause of the conflict. We need to not have the conflicts."

Daddy interjected. "So, Porter, do you ever take things from Campbell, possibly causing a conflict?"

"No." Pause. "I'm ready to get out of the bathtub, now."

Too Young to Date

My sister has this week off work, so she volunteered her babysitting services for Campbell so I can take Porter out on a rare one-on-one excursion. He's been wanting to see "Tangled," so that's what we're doing. He was quite confused when I asked him out on a date:

"Po, would you like to go on a date with me, just you and I?"

"Well," he said, thoughtfully, "I think I better wait until I'm a little bit older to go on a date," indicating the "little bit" with his thumb and index finger.

"Really?" I asked. "Why?"

"I don't know, but I think you better call the date place to see if little boys are allowed to go on dates. You told me before that I couldn't go because the date was just for you and Daddy."

Just a Feeling

The routine goes: Bath. Stories. Bed.

I was bathing the littles tonight, and Po was feeling frisky, trying to insert some new activities into the routine.

"Mommy, can we play a game after the bath before we read stories?" he asked.

"Porter, it's really late. Let's play a game in the morning, instead. You really need your rest," I said.

He replied, "But, Mommy, I'm feeling quite game-ish."

Time for Botox

Porter looked at me, alarmed, today, and said "MOMMY! Is your forehead cracked?"

Would You Like to Come Over For Dinner Tonight?

I purchased a pizza at Fresh & Easy tonight so I could quick and easy make it for dinner. It had sausage on it, among other things. I put it in the cart, and Po said "EWWWWWWW! I am NOT trying that pizza! It has poo on it!"

His Lovely Assistant

For whatever reason, the new "Let's Make a Deal" popped up on our TV yesterday, and Po was enthralled. He loved everything about it and was yelling things like "curtain 2!" and "he won a motorcycle...that's so cool!"

This afternoon he asked to watch it again. "That grown-up show where people have costumes and win stuff." Harmless enough, and we only had ten minutes until we left to pick up the teen thing from school, so we tuned in.

Again. Total fascination. And this time Campbell was a fan, too.

So we watched, and then Po was totally bummed when we couldn't stay to see if the dude got the "big deal."

As we're walking out to the car, Porter has "supe" (his nickname for "super blankie"), as usual. I'm holding Cam, as usual. Porter makes like a magician of sorts and says in perfect game show host style, "Mommy, what's behind blanket number 2?"

I giggled and said, "I'm not sure," thinking there's nothing.

He lifted the blankie to reveal a Hot Wheels car.

Campbell–yes, Campbell–announced "A NEW CAR!"

And Now, on a More Serious Note

For the past couple of nights, I haven't given Po much water in his bed because he hasn't been holding it well, so to speak. This is a change from the norm, so tough for him to handle.

Just after I put him to bed this evening, he started crying, then wailing, and then saying things like "I need water, Mommy! I don't want to die! I don't want to die, Mommy! I don't want to die!" I told him through the door that he'd be just fine with the splash of water I gave him, and that he would surely survive until morning, but the cries only got more intense. He'll occasionally come up with some dramatic story to avoid bedtime, so I chalked it up to that and decided to let him cry it out.

That lasted all of five minutes. He continued with the Grim Reaper story line, so I thought I'd better pay him a bit of attention.

"Po. Let's settle down, baby." I said, kissing his tears and holding him. He calmed enough for me to sort-of understand what he was saying, but he was still doing the snot-choking gasping cries I remember doing as I kid when the worry was real. I heard him get out "I just want to be with you."

So I held him and rubbed his back while he simmered down and started to explain himself. "Mommy, I REALLY don't want to die. I will miss you, and I will miss K (BFF)."

"Porter, you won't die until you're about a hundred, so let's not worry about that, okay?"

"Mommy, I don't want to die. I will be lonely, and I won't be able to see you, and I will miss everybody..." he continued.

The challenges as a parent just keep coming, don't they? "Porter, you are going to have a long, long life, and that's not something we need to worry about right now. I do want to talk to you more about this, so let's talk in the morning. It's important that you get some rest and figure out all of your questions about dying, then we'll talk for as long as you like tomorrow."

Porter continued. "But what if I die and they can't fix me? I might need something to eat."

Can I cry, now?

This family is no stranger to death, starting with me losing my mother at age eight. Porter has experienced the loss of pets, insects, and flowers. He's sensitive. He cries whenever he sees a tree stump and says "I loved that tree. That's SO sad." I know he got a bit of it from me, but most of it is all Po.

My master plan is to tell the littles in time about all of the different theories on dying and let them decide what they believe for themselves, as we have done with B. Only B didn't ask about it until a more appropriate age, like TEN! Now what do I do with a three-year-old? I don't want to impose any one view on him, but I want more than anything to comfort him. But I'm going to keep it real, no matter what. So how do I keep things real for him but also comfort. Why does it seem like I can't have both?

He's asleep, now. I promised to check on him and give him kisses before turning in, myself. Let's hope I dream up something brilliant to tell him in the morning.

That Was Quick

This is the first year that Po is really into his Halloween candy, agonizing over the decision when he's allowed to have a piece after eating a good meal. He didn't do so well at dinner last night but still wanted a treat, so I told him he'd need to eat more healthy food in order to earn it.

After trying every excuse he knew, he cried, "but, Mommy, my tummy really, really, really hurts..." with a groan for added flair.

"Oh, Po, I'm so sorry to hear that," I sympathized. "If you have a tummy ache, then you definitely shouldn't have a piece of candy, because that will make it worse." Big hugs.

"Well, it's much better, now," he reconsidered, "it was just a short one."

Keep Your Hands to Yourself

The littles were taking their bath this evening, and Po was all about floating on his back, for some reason. Cam was doing her own thing, relegated to the corner of the tub. After some time, she took notice of what was bobbing on the surface as Po perfected his float.

"HEY!" Po hollered. "She touched my privacy!"

Trying to suppress a guffaw with no help from my sister, who was hanging in the bathroom with us, I said "Well, tell her not to."

"No, you tell her."

"No, Po, you tell her. It's your body, so you need to tell her. Say 'Campbell, please don't touch my penis,'" I advised.

"No. You tell–HEY! She touched it again!"

As my sister and I started snickering, Cam giggled and said "Mommy! Penis!"

It was all over. As the adults busted up, Po said "Mommy, I don't like her touching my privacy" while floating spread-eagle on his back, taking up 99% of the tub.

"Well, Po," I said, "then don't make it so available."

Wrong Kid

My hubby had a long meeting today and had a bit of trouble shifting gears when he got home just in time for the littles' bath. He took Po into the bedroom to change into pjs while I helped Cam brush her teeth in the bathroom. After a couple of minutes, I hear Po say "Um, Daddy? You're putting a diaper on me."

Lemon Anatomy

I rolled out a fresh spread of paper on the play table this morning, and the littles immediately went to work. Porter was very focused for a few minutes, and then said, "look! It's a talking lemon!"

"A talking lemon?" I asked.

"Yup!"

"Whatever made you think to draw a talking lemon?"

"Mommy, it's just a talking lemon."

"Oh, okay," I conceded.

Po was back to work on another area of the paper. The drawing looked similar, but it was much larger and sort-of rocket-like.

"A penis lemon!" Po declared.

"A penis lemon?" I giggled.

"Yup! A lemon with a penis! See?"

"Yes, I see. Fantastic."

Campbell piped in, "WHY?"

Sometimes my little girl of few words chooses just the right one.

"Here, Porter. Have some milk," Daddy interjected, most certainly trying to change the subject.

"Okay!" said Po, skipping off with his cup.

Tell it Like it is

The littles and I were out distributing Well Minded door hangers this morning. They enjoy helping by holding the flyers and snacking in the stroller while I run up to each door. Sometimes someone is outside the home, so instead of being a dork and putting the flyer on the doorknob while the person is standing right there, I ask, "may I please give you a flyer for pet sitting?" The person almost always gives me permission and often asks me questions about the business, so it's a nice opportunity. Porter usually says hello and chats them up about how much we love animals, pretty much sealing the deal that we'll snag a new client out of the encounter.

Today we came upon a man hosing down his driveway, so I asked, "good morning, sir! May I please give you a flyer for pet sitting?"

"NO," he barked.

"Alright, then. Have a wonderful day!"

In a volume high enough for the man to hear and with an appropriately-irritated tone, Po asked "Mommy! Why did that man say 'no'? THAT WAS SO MEAN!"

Awesome. We weren't snagging that guy, anyway. Maybe Po taught him something.

Spelling Bee

I usually have the littles get through some of their dinner before I let them have a drink. Otherwise, they drink ten gallons, then say they're full.

This evening big bro, B, finished his meal (he doesn't have the same problem, but couldn't pause to pour himself a drink before diving in) and asked if he could have a D-R-I-N-K. You know how you spell things when you don't want the non-spellers to pick up on something?

"Sure," I said.

When B sat down with his beverage, Po asked, "Mommy, may I please have some T-I-A-A-Y?"

B and I looked at each other and smiled.

"Would you like the drink brother has?" I inquired.

"No. I want some T-I-A-A-Y."

"T-I-A-A-Y?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"What is that, Po? Do you want some milk?"

Big sigh. "No, Mommy, I want some T-I-A-A-Y, please."

B and I looked at each other in confusion and hysterics without showing either to Po.

I say to Po, "Well, Po, my spelling isn't as good as it should be. Could you please just tell me the word for what you want?"

Bigger sigh. "I want some ice cream."

I almost pissed my pants laughing that time. He didn't eat a great dinner, but I let him have a popsicle because he showed such a great spelling effort.

High Five

Po and Cam sit right next to each other in the car, which sometimes means trouble. Especially since Cam works her breech-baby flexibility, often putting her foot right in Po's face. He can't stand it, of course, and occasionally resorts to physical means, as was the case this morning.

"Porter, our hands are not for hitting, even if Campbell has her foot in your face. Ask her nicely to move her foot, and if she won't, then let me know and I'll take care of it. Remember, our hands are for holding things, petting animals gently, clapping, and giving high fives."

Porter thought for a moment and said. "Mommy, isn't giving a high five a type of hitting?"

Sheesh. "Well, I guess you could argue that, but it's hitting gently with permission. If both people put their hands up, it's okay."

"Well, I still think it could be really dangerous. Like someone could go to jail for their whole life."

I don't think I'd had enough coffee, yet, to dispute that.

The Flip Side

Porter was not getting his way this morning. He didn't get a lollipop for breakfast. Or gummy sharks. He was served yogurt, granola, and strawberries, and he was having none of it. He persisted about the chocolate milk and the popsicles. I persisted with the "no."

About mid-morning, he announced "Mommy, I really don't appreciate your attitude today."

Urgent Eye Exam

I was trying to get Po dressed quickly this morning because we were late for a play date. Of course, he had other things to do, which was making me frustrated on top of rushed. Never a good thing.

As I'm in close quarters with him trying to help him pull his pants up, etc., he keeps shoving this crystal thing in my eye. So then I couldn't see what I was doing, adding even more to my frustration. He kept saying something I was trying to tune out about the fact that he was a doctor and had to check my eyes...

I finally said "If I let you check my eyes for a minute, will you please put that thing DOWN and GET DRESSED?"

"Um...yeah, of course." he said.

So I put the dang pants down and opened my eyes wide for my exam. He looked and looked. One eye, then the next, then back again.

"Well. I don't know what to say. I think there's a problem with your pupil."

Of course there is. My pupil? I should have known all along.

Chess

Porter and Campbell were attempting to play chess yesterday, and I was listening to Po's commentary.

"Bay sis', you be a lawyer and attack me, and I'm the King of Cartoons."

Champagne

We don't drink all that much Champagne in our house, but whenever we do, Po gets on a six-month Champagne kick. Kid Champagne, to be exact.

So I'll occasionally let him pick out a bottle. Apple, pear, cranberry...whatever. This last time he picked out Strawberry Kid Champagne. He's having a glass with dinner, and he says "Mommy, since I'm having Strawberry Kid Champagne, I think I need a strawberry in it.

Really? Really. Does he know that's a thing? He can't. "So you want a strawberry to enhance the flavor of the Champagne?" I inquired.

"Yes."

"Okay, buddy, you got it." So I pulled a strawberry out of the fridge, washed it, and dropped it in his plastic Champagne glass.

"But..." he protested.

"Nope. Grownups do it with the stems on."

"O....K..." He took a swig. "Mmmmmmmmmm! WAY better!"

Don't ever fault me for not teaching my kid the essentials in life.

Selfish With an Undertone of Sweetness

This morning was one of those rare ones that had me up before the littles. By choice? No. By Kermit. Barking. And not one of those long sessions that you can tune out, it was "RUF!" Ten second pause. "RUF!" Ten second pause. "RUF!"

You get the picture. Anyway, I'm up.

I start to hear grumbling from Po and Cam's room, so I'm all ears on the monitor. I love to hear them plot. They share a room with Po in a bed and Cam in a crib. After a bit of unclear chatterand Cam saying "out" several times, I hear Po say the following:

"Bay sis'" (that's how he pronounces "baby sis'," his preferred nickname for her). "Bay sis', I'll be back to check on you in a minute, after I have breakfast."

She responds,"k." I don't think she knew what she was agreeing to.

"Here, Bay sis', you can read this book."

"Deek you."

Po comes out and says "I'm ready for breakfast now, Mommy," leaving Bay sis' in the dust.

Poo, Part Deux (or How to Completely Embarrass Your Teen)

My two little cherubs are running around naked right now because we're waiting in line for the kid bathroom. Again.

B is taking his sweet time. When I tried to open the door this time, I said "Seriously? We need to change your poo schedule." How is it possible that at the exact time the littles need to bathe, the teen-thing is taking a crap, every night? Should I try fiber to push things up to morning for him? So that it's convenient for me?

Porter knocks on the door and says "Brother, I'm serious. Are you serious?"

"Yes, Po."

"Well, are you going pee or poo?" Enquiring minds want to know. As if we couldn't tell from the hallway.

"Poo."

"Seriously? Is that the deal? (I love my kid.) Get out of town," Porter suggested what we were all thinking.

"Po, leave me alone."

"Well, then get out of the bathroom." A logical solution.

Whoop...gotta go. Bathroom is free. Better jump on that.

I Can't Make This Shit Up

When my day started off with my mashed potato-brained dog eating my favorite bra, I thought things could only get better.

Bookends. Ever heard of bookends?

Porter and Campbell ate an unbelievably and rare good dinner tonight, so I gave them each a slice of Auntie Karin's leftover b-day cake for dessert. They were COVERED in it, so I thought I'd take them directly to the bath. Do not pass go. Do NOT touch the walls.

I go to open the door to their bathroom where all of their bathing supplies are, and it's locked. Crap. Our teen-thing is taking a crap. And because, to my knowledge, he doesn't read this blog, I'll tell you the details, and he can blame me later. Something was seeping under the door into the hallway, he's taking his sweet time, and I'm holding a nearly twenty-month-old who is so covered in chocolate cake that she can't even see and simultaneously trying to calm and negotiate Po into not finger painting his mess onto the walls and my clothes. Not even at a drunken concert when I was barely twenty-one had I wanted to get into a bathroom more badly, though it smelled like a sewer. Talk about painful desperation.

As we waited outside the door, Campbell squirmed and threw a fit, and I talked to Porter about how, once we got in, I'd draw him the bubbliest bath in the world. "Will it be a pretty one?"

"Yes. Absolutely. I'll put half the dang container of bubbles in the bath...ARE WE ALMOST DONE IN THERE? IF YOU'RE READING I SWEAR I'LL..."

Click.

Whew.

Pee-eeew.

I ran the water and stuck the littles in immediately. Po has this incredibly sensitive gag reflex, so he was gagging, and I told him that as soon as he got in the bubble bath, it would smell better. While he was waiting his turn to enter the oasis, he proclaimed "BROTHER! You didn't flush!"

WTF. Seriously.

Brother explained, "yeah, well, I had to use a lot of toilet paper, and it won't all go down."

Of course.

I told the littles, "just get in the bath, and let me worry about that." They were happy to oblige.

I had the teen-thing bring me the plunger, and I went to work, turning around after every plunge to make sure there was no drowning going on. It was no use. I sent my on-his-way-home husband a text saying that I would never divorce him if nothing but for the fact that I can't unclog a toilet to save my life. And hurry.

So we're trying to get over the fact that we're bathing next to a clogged toilet. At least we have a thick layer of sweet-smelling bubbles. The biggest bubble bath ever. I promised. All we needed were some toys. I peered into the tub saw some dark shadows and thought, "I don't remember putting toys in there."

"POO!" Porter announced while gagging.

EVACUATION. IMMEDIATE EVACUATION! NOW!

I removed Porter first, for fear that he would add vomit to the equation. I told him to stand on the bath mat and "don't move."

"But I don't want to look at the poo! I can't look at the poo!"

"Turn around and close your eyes. I'll take care of it," I tried to reassure him.

Campbell was next. It was her poo...might as well let her sit and stew in it while I evacuated the other. "B, get yourself in here RIGHT NOW and help me." The teen thing came. "Hold your sister. She has shampoo in her hair, and she's covered in poo water. She's slippery, but don't drop her, whatever you do." He looked at me with disgust. I told him, "you started the ball rolling on all of this, and you are going to have to change your shirt, but you ARE holding her for as long as this takes. And make sure Po doesn't move off the bath mat."

Po screamed "I don't want to look at the POO!"

Me neither. I had to take the plunge. Time was of the essence.

Now, it would be fairly easy if I all I had to do was transfer the offensive invaders into the toilet right next to the tub.

Your brain it clicking into high gear, now, isn't it? Sort-of like a suspense movie?

"B, give me your sister, and go get me a bowl." All I get is a stunned freakish look back.

"NOW!"

"Okay, okay..." he goes. I'm waiting. I shit you not, the kid comes back with a ramekin.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I HAVE TO DIG A FULL POO OUT OF THE BATH. GET ME A FLIPPING BOWL. A bowl. A BOOOOOOOOOOWL!"

"Okay, OKAY!" attitudes the teen-thing.

He comes back with a bowl. And if you are ever planning to eat dinner at my house in the future, don't ask which one. Just forget this ever happened.

I wish I had a fish net, but now, at least three minutes into the crisis, I had to be brave. The hands went in, and I scooped over and over, trying to get every dissolving nugget into that bowl as fast as I could. Once I thought I'd gotten all I could get, I carried the soupy mess into the master bath and dumped it into the toilet. Gag. I then went to the kitchen and burned the hottest water into that bowl I could. Then I went back to the bathroom.

All seemed to be well, except for the fact that I still had two dripping-wet poo-children being supervised by the teen thing. I let the tub drain out, disinfectant poised, then noticed a blue whale-sized shadow. It couldn't be. Was that concealed by the iceberg bubble formations I'd created? O.M.G. I can't go back and get the bowl. Everyone is screaming and gagging. A mother has to do what a mother has to to. I transported that mother with my bare hands all the way to the master bath.

There must be some kind of award.

So I quickly disinfected the tub as hubby strolled in just in time to laugh. His ass off.

Bath. Take two!

"Just unclog the toilet," I pleaded. He did, and he knew better than keep chuckling.

Porter concluded, with our complete party of five in the bathroom, "Brother, you need to not poo so much!"

Here, here. And cheers to that.

Stop the Violence

We decided recently that Po should grow up and deal with life without being locked in his bedroom at bedtime. We're the ones dealing, of course, but he's learning.

He did fine for a while, but lately he's been transforming into an expert spy-type escape artist, and before I know it, he's snoozing happily with eighteen friends, a cup of water and multiple blankets in my bed, all performed right under my nose.

We were considering re-installing the lock, but my husband came up with a better idea: rest an empty Diet Coke can on the handle of the lever doorknob so that when he opens the door, the can comes crashing down on the hardwood floor and scares the shit out of him.

Mwahahahaha.

So we tried this for the first time last night, and let me just say that now our biggest problem is keeping a straight face. Po turned the knob several times and we replaced the can several times before he said "hey, guys? What do you keep throwing at me?"

There is no hope for me keeping a straight face, now.

Why Girls are More Fun than Boys

Campbell has been a bit curious about her private area lately, so we've been teaching her the proper word. Since she is the only girl baby in the house, we've never heard the word so much in our lives.

While I was helping Po finish up on the toilet today, he said "Mommy, do I have a fun-gina?"

Sometimes you can't beat a good kid mispronunciation.

Big Baby

We had a child lock installed on the pantry soon after Porter ate half a box of Fudge Stripe Cookies for breakfast one morning.

Porter wanted some chocolate milk this afternoon and wanted to help by getting the Ovaltine out of the pantry. It wasn't in its usual spot, so I helped him find it and then said "sometimes Daddy puts things back in funny places."

Porter suggested "maybe we should put a really big baby lock on the pantry so he stops doing that silly stuff."

Consulting Mr. Webster

As if Porter doesn't have a large enough vocabulary, he often makes up his own words when he doesn't have one to express himself. He never misses a beat...he just throws the made-up word right into the middle of the sentence. I usually ask him what the word means, and he always has a very precise definition.

So this morning he was frustrated because Daddy and Mommy wouldn't let him do something. He said "Aaaaaarrrrrrgggg. Why do you guys always omnicate together?"

"'Omnicate'?" I asked.

"Yeah, 'omnicate'."

"What does 'omnicate' mean?"

Porter explained, "Well, it means when you and Daddy say the same thing."

"Oh. I see." I walked away, and then, about thirty seconds later, put on the brakes. Could it be? Could he have used an actual word and I just don't know it? "Omni" means "one," And "cate..." doesn't that have something to do with the mouth, like "masticate?" Hmmmm. Could this word "omnicate" be real? Seemed like a possibility, so I actually went to the dictionary.

Aren't you dying to know?

I could make you look it up, but I'll spare you the burden of an endless search. It's not there, but maybe it should be. I think I'll incorporate it into my vocabulary.

Cloud Movement

Our family enjoyed some outdoor time this evening, seeing as it was the first cool night of the season. When we returned from a walk, we spent some time in the back yard. I was pushing Po on the swing, and we were looking at the plane lights cut through the clouds in the sky. We were also observing stars. He said "hey, where did that star go?"

I told him, "it's still there. We just can't see it because the cloud moved and came between it and us."

"Oh," he replied, "I didn't realize that clouds migrate, too."

YouTube

Porter loves to watch garbage truck and train videos on YouTube. I just type in the request, and he's good to go. We've never had an issue...he just points and clicks.

The other day he was doing his thing and suddenly emitted a cry of panic. "I don't want to see these grown-up videos! Ahhhhhhhhhh! Grown-up videos! I don't WANT these GROWN UP VIDEOS!"

It took my brain a second to click on, and then I thought, Oh, BLEEP. My mind immediately went to the worst, and as I bolted and hurdled across the room to the computer, things seemed to be in slow-motion. And the horrific slide show of the nude and lewd streamed through my mind in fast-motion.

I didn't want to know what he had stumbled upon that was obviously disturbing him greatly.

But I had to look.

I had to turn it off.

I fish-tailed around the desk and saw the horror.

Flower arranging.

All Creatures, Great and Small

Yesterday Porter asked, "Are there doctors for fish?"

"Yes, some fish see doctors, I'm sure."

He concluded "I bet they just have to call 1.888.FISH.VET."

Looking Out for Baby Sis

We went to Costco right around noon today. I didn't realize I wouldn't have to feed my children lunch after the smorgasbord we encountered–bonus! We finished the gluttony off with a smoothie provided by some road-trippin' gal on a microphone trying to sell some $400 blender...right.

It was pink and frozen, so the kids were all over it. They held their nectar in small plastic cups, and, naturally, Po finished his ten times faster than Cam.

Once we were separated at more than arms' length at the check stand, Po grabbed Cam's little cup, licking it, and declared "Don't you think baby sis' has had enough sugar for one day?"

Inspired by Pink

I still can't get over Pink's Grammy performance, so since the kids and I are doing a youtube music dance party tonight, I decided to show them the video, thinking they would be mature enough to handle it.

They were. And Po was quietly enthralled, just like I imagined. Until Pink stripped and got up on the silks and he said...

"BOOTY!"

The Airplane Situation

I have to make quite a few key copies in the pet sitting business, so our family frequents Ace Hardware. They have a small but mighty shelf of toys near the check stand that always entices Po. For several weeks, he has been checking out a particular Hawaiian Airlines-looking yellow airplane with doors that open, and last week the lovely greeter told him he could get it next time we came to Ace, pretty much forcing my hand. When I announced this morning that we were going to Ace to make key copies, thinking this promise would have been forgotten, he immediately jumped up and down and said "yeah! That man told me I could get the yellow airplane today! I get to get the yellow airplane!"

No getting out of this one. If the guy had been there, I would have made him pay for it.

We came home with the airplane.

Needless to say, he's been playing with it all day and cuddled with the sharp iron weapon during nap time. At dinner tonight, with the airplane looking over his meal, he said "Mommy, I think we need to have a little talk about the airplane situation."

Nearly spitting out my beverage all over him, I confirmed "situation?"

"Yes, the airplane situation. Why did you get me the airplane?"

"Well," I began, leaving out the part about the presumptuous sales clerk, "You've been consistently wanting it for several weeks, and you've been a pretty good boy lately, so I thought you deserved it."

He pondered for a split second, and then asked, "Well, why did I want the airplane? You tell me."

"No, you tell me why you wanted the airplane."

Giant grin..."No, you tell me about the airplane situation."

I'm so not winning this.

Po on Corn Dogs

I try not to disguise crap as a meal most of the time, but an occasional kid-requested corn dog that's easy for mommy is right up my alley. I just served them, and Porter declared "corn dogs are like hot dogs in a cocoon."

Um, yeah. I was totally thinking the same thing.

For Certain

I pointed out a small, private airport to Porter today while we were driving. He asked "when is the airport open?"

"Day and night, pretty much," I said.

"Can we go?" he asked.

"Well, it's a private airport, which means only certain people can use it." I tried to explain.

"We're certain," he concluded.

Cuties

Porter asked to have a "Cutie" with his dinner this evening. He told his big brother, B, "Cuties are really little oranges, but they call them 'Cuties' because they're cute, like Campbell."

A-ha! So there is a wee bit of love in there somewhere!

Sometimes Sisters Don't Make Sense

We were trying to read bedtime stories tonight, and Campbell kept hauling out her baby doll stroller. She was pushing it up and down the hallway outside the kids' room...back and forth. She insisted it be empty. Then she decided she wanted to try sitting in it. Po agreed to push her around. She was having some real trouble getting in, but wouldn't let anyone help her. She starting picking up the stroller and throwing it like the Incredible Hulk.

Po started shaking his head and said, "crazy kid."

Cute Kids

We're sitting around at lunch today, and I asked Brennen "How did we get both of the cutest kids in the whole wide world?"

Porter explained "We came out of your tummy."

A Chart

Porter has been potty trained for a while, now, but recently we've seen a bit of regression. I'm not sure if it's the move, or just excitement or forgetfulness, but he has been needing quite a few more changes of underpants each day than should be normal for someone who knows how to use the toilet.

Our crazy mixed-up diseased mashed-potato-for-brains but lovable dog, Kermit, now wears diapers. Not because he's incontinent, but because he truly has not much brains left over from his seizures, so he just lifts his leg on anything. He'll lift his leg on the table, a kid toy, even a kid. He has truly lost his mind, and the diapers are our protection.

So we're having all kinds of potty issues in this house.

We have recently created a chart for Po. There are three times during the day that he can earn a star for keeping his pants dry. When he reaches a certain number of stars, he'll earn something he's been wanting forever, a Hot Wheels Custom Motors..."made by you..."

The other day we came home after being out for quite some time. I let the dogs out right away, of course, removing Kermit's diaper as he exited out the slider. "Wow," I said. "Kermit's diaper is dry. Good boy, Kerm!"

Porter said, "Mommy, since Kermie's diaper is dry, we should make him a chart and he can get a star, and he can earn a new doggie bone."

So I'm thinking Kermie is not going to grasp the concept, but maybe a little healthy competition between two males in the house isn't such a bad thing for Porter's progress. Hmmmm.

Future Barista

We're sitting at breakfast this morning, and Po, as he sometimes does, starts blowing bubbles in his milk. I've given up on forbidding him completely to do it because, well, that just sets us up for a day of "you're in big trouble" that we don't really need. So I'm trying to establish parameters, instead. No blowing bubbles over the top so it makes a mess, and no blowing bubbles in a restaurant. I'm such a hard-ass.

Po starts blowing away and gives me a sly grin, knowing I don't completely approve, but confident that he'll get away with it. "It's a latte!" he declares.

I start cracking up. The latte IS my coffee beverage of choice, but I truly only get one about once a quarter, so it's not like this is something he hears every day. "How do you know what a latte is, Po?"

"I'm just a smart guy."

No doubt.

The Responsibility of Borrowing

Po and his best buddy have been working on sharing lately (er...the mommies have been working on getting the boys to share). They usually see each other a couple of times a week, so each time one brings something for the other to borrow, then gets to borrow something in return. Nothing official, but it's been working out that way. After saying "no" several times, Po finally let his friend borrow his most special possession (besides super blankie), his giant orange garbage truck that he earned when he became potty trained. In exchange, Po was loaned two Thomas books and a small Tonka dumper.

Naturally, he slept with the Tonka dumper last night.

He came to me this morning with it in two pieces, a horrified look on his face. "I don't know what happened. Please fix it." It looked to me as if two microscopic screws were missing from the bottom. I had no idea how they could have come out or how to fix it without them, so I said "Ask Daddy if he can fix it," which is what I usually say when there's no hope to repair a prized possession.

"It looks like there are two microscopic screws missing from the bottom. I can't fix it."

Sometimes Daddies don't know that a definitive "no" is not the way to go in delicate situations such as these. Po turned on the water works.

I encouraged. "Um...Daddy...could you please check again? Isn't there anything we can do?"

He took another look through sleepy eyes. "Take it to Ace. See if they can do anything."

We put the two halves of the borrowed dumper in a plastic bag and stopped at Ace while we were out doing errands. When we walked in, I pointed out the dude in uniform and told Porter to explain the issue.

"'Cuse me. My friend's dumper broke and we want to fix it."

I elaborated, "I think it's missing some microscopic screws in the bottom. Might you be able to help?"

"Go down to aisle thirteen and I'll send someone to meet you," he commanded. Po looked at me hopefully and then looked up at the aisle markers.

"What does thirteen look like?" he asked.

"1 and 3," I said.

"There it is!" He marched over as if he was going to meet "the great and powerful Oz."

"May I help you?" asked a kind looking gentleman.

Po explained "My friend's dumper broke, and I want to fix it. I need help, please."

The man took the truck without saying a word and walked down the seemingly endless aisle of screws of every size. I really couldn't imagine they would have any small enough to help our sad, borrowed dumper. We probably should have taken it to a jeweler. He looked and looked and looked and looked...tried some in the holes, then put them back, grumbled a bit, and kept going. He wasn't saying much, but he was taking it seriously, which was wonderful, since I expected him to just tell me "don't be silly. Go buy a new one for 99¢"

After about ten minutes, he suddenly put the dumper down on the ground and rolled it to Po. "I hope it holds up for you." Done. Perfect.

Po started beaming and practically screamed "THANK YOU! MY FRIEND WILL BE SO HAPPY!"

I smiled at the man and told him thank you. He told me that it was a fun challenge, and that there would be no charge for the repair. Wow. Sometimes there is good in this world.

And I Thought I Knew About Beeswax

The things you think you know!

Porter is such an inquisitive kid. He teaches me things every day. How would I know that a trash truck that accepts refuse in the back is called a rear-loader or that a Brontosaurus never really existed or that the train car behind the engine that holds all the coal is called a "tender," if not for this child? He asks challenging questions every day, and I try my best to find the answers. Sometimes I'm shocked at what I don't know.

Tonight over a candlelit dinner he asked "Where do candles come from?"

"Wax." Sometimes I hope he'll accept the simple answer. Has it happened, yet?

"Where does wax come from?"

"Bees." Another cop-out on my part.

"What is the job of a bee?"

"Bees make honey and wax," I knew.

"How do they make wax?" There it was. My knowledge base had been tapped, and my three-year-old was making me feel stupid again. Am I the only one who doesn't have a flippin' clue how bees make wax? All I remember from second grade science is that bees make wax, and I don't remember questioning further. These annoying and often inconvenient genes must have come from my husband.

"I have no idea, honestly. Let's find out." We tromped over to the computer and found this:

http://www.beeswaxco.com/howBeesMakeWax.htm

And, no, I'm not going to summarize for you. If you really want to know, read the whole damn thing like I had to do. I tried to get away with the first two paragraphs, but even though Po can't read, he knew there were more words. Can't a mom just be lazy sometimes? Not with this kid.

If you don't feel like reading the whole thing, call Po and ask him how beeswax is made. The cool thing is, if you ask him how he knows, he'll tell you his mommy taught him. I'm not worthy.

A Post About Posting

Porter was just taking some pictures around the house with his toddler camera. He said "Mommy, I'm posting a picture of Campbell by the fireplace."

"Posting?" I asked.

"Yeah, on Facebook."

Your children listen and repeat. Sometimes it's foul language. Sometimes it's not, but it's equally entertaining.

Wasting Water

I'm a huge stickler about water waste. I use the minimum, and I expect my kids to do the same. I'm not some freak that doesn't take showers or doesn't water the lawn, but I do turn the water off while brushing my teeth, and I yell at my husband for admiring himself in the mirror too long while the water is warming up in the shower...a real environmentalist.

This afternoon I encountered some seriously stuck-on food on a pan while, simultaneously, one kid wanted a show on and another kid wanted some milk and another kid wanted his homework paper signed while my phone was ringing...

I just had to get that stuck-on food off the pan, but needed to multi-task to survive, so I did the unthinkable. I ran the water into the pan, and then abandoned it in order to turn on a show for Po. As I'm working the remote he says, "Mommy, I think you're wasting Wa-a-a-t-e-r-r-r!"

Guilty as charged. Why must I train him so well?

How Do You Define a "Bad Guy?"

This evening I was swinging Po in the backyard. We're all relaxed, enjoying the sunset while Cam ran around naked in the grass and N.A.S.H.A. barked her head off at the butterflies. Suddenly Po asks, "Do police have guns?" Mind you, guns are not a hot topic of conversation in our home.

"Yes, police carry guns."

"Why?" He further inquired. This seemed almost as challenging as a pre-teen sex conversation.

Totally unprepared and slightly stammering, I responded, "Well, sometimes people do REALLY bad things, like trying to hurt other people, and if they won't stop, then the policeman has a gun to stop the bad person."

"Tell me more."

"Well, sometimes bad people try to hurt policemen, so they also carry guns to protect themselves."

"Oh. What's in the guns?" Seriously. Are we going here?

"Bullets."

"What are bullets?" Why must my child be so inquisitive?

"They are the small pieces of metal that fly out of guns and go into a body. They can hurt very badly or kill someone."

"Like lions?" Where is this going?

"Well, I suppose some hunters shoot lions."

"But lions aren't mean," he reasoned.

"No they're not mean. They're just hungry." Did I seriously say that? Where the hell is this conversation going? Abort. Abort. SOS. And we're going to the zoo tomorrow. Shit, I'm in serious trouble.

"Well, do policemen shoot bad people like when I was screaming in the house yesterday?" And I thought it couldn't get any worse.

"NO, honey. No WAY. NO WAY. Policemen only shoot really bad criminals who are breaking the law in the most extreme way and making life dangerous for other people. Although I don't like you screaming at the top of your lungs in the house and you get a timeout if you continue to scream when I ask you to stop, that is not against the law, and it's not making things dangerous for other people. It just hurts mommy's head."

"Okay."

"You're not a bad person. You're a great person."

"Yeah. I have to pee."

Future Director?

We invited some friends to our home to play this morning, and Porter was quite anxious. Especially so because his buddy was going to be left by his mommy for the very first time. I spoke to Po about how his buddy might be scared and might cry, and I reminded him about how he felt the first couple of times I left him. We went over how Po could reassure his friend by telling him that Mommies always come back. Porter thought of some activities that his friend would like to do to make him feel happy, so we were pretty pumped and ready for our big responsibility.

Po kept checking the front window, then suddenly announced "Mommy, I think they're here!'

"They are? Oh, good!" I said.

Porter continued, "They're here! Places everybody! Places!"

Hawka Birds

Porter and I noticed a couple of neat-looking birds in the backyard. We were watching them as they slowly opened their wings and let them back down, and I asked him what he thought about the birds:

"Well, they are Hawka birds."

"Hawka birds?"

"Yes, Hawka birds. They spread their wings to keep cool and so you can see the white stuff on the wings. That's what Hawka birds do."

"Oh," I said. "How do you know so much about them?"

"You taught me about birds. Their names. Sizes. Feathers. The Hawka bird has long tailfeathers. See?"

"Yes, I see that. What do you think they're doing?"

"Playing hide and seek." He paused for a moment and reconsidered. "Well, I know all about the Hawka birds that you taught me, but I don't really know what they actually do."

And I thought he knew everything.

Bein' a Kid

I took the littles to the neighborhood park today, and we had a great time swinging. I swung next to Po so that I could try to teach him how to pump (selfishly, so I don't have to run back and forth so much between his swing and Cam's baby swing, which is across the whole dang playground...who designs these places, anyway?). He got the general idea. Reach out with your feet as you go forward, bend back as you go back. His timing left a lot to be desired.

He got frustrated after a few minutes and said, "Mommy, can you please just push me? That's what being a kid is all about."

At least the running back and forth will burn a few Teddy Grahams worth of calories.

The First Non-verbal Po-ism

I hooked Po up with a spoon and fork with his dinner this evening so that he'd have his choice of utensil with which to eat his pasta. Immediately after he stuck the fork tine up his nose, I confiscated it.

He was bummed, and gave me the "Aw-uh" thing.

I told him he still had a spoon to use wisely, "and you can't stick that up your nose."

He softly glared at me for a moment, and like a hippo, flared his nostrils.

F.Y.I.

I'm listening to Daddy give the littles a bath, and Po suddenly yells "F.Y.I.!"

Daddy asks, "F.Y.I., what?"

"F.Y.I. shower," then pulled the shower knob and doused everyone.

F.Y.I.

Mommy's Haircut

I told Po that he's going to hang out with Daddy this afternoon while I get my hair done. His response:

"Okay. Are you going to get a mohawk?"

Daddy's Timeout

Yesterday afternoon I took Po to Costco. It was just the two of us, which is rare, but I try to make it happen every now and again. He loves the samples, of course, so he was thrilled to get some one-on-one time with me and treats.

We had about two things in our cart when I get a call from my husband:

"Honey, where are you?"

"Costco, as I said I would be. Why?"

"How long until you come home?"

"I just started. WHY?"

"Well," he says, in way too calm a voice, "I went outside for a second and I didn't know the door would lock behind me, so I'm outside and Campbell is inside."

"WHAT?!?!?" I ripped Po out of the cart and we ran to the car, blowing past the receipt checkers. Porter wanted to know what happened, why I was mad, and why we were leaving. I told him that Daddy made a bad choice that I was upset about because it put Campbell in danger. I promised we'd go straight back to Costco once we saved the day.

He pondered for a minute and asked, "If Daddy made a bad choice, will he get a timeout?"

Meanie

I am being completely honest when I say that the last 48 hours have been the roughest in my mothering career, even considering being urgently gutted like a fish for my second-born breech baby, Cam. Over the last couple of days, my heart has been ripped out of my chest by my articulate son, Po, the subject of these writings.

My normally sweet, thoughtful, insightful kid has been the devil. Thoughtful and insightful in all the wrong ways with no sweet to lighten the load. I won't go in to all the details, but if you imagine the worst, imagine worse. After disciplinary actions I never thought I'd have to pull out of my back pocket (don't call the cops, just know that he's in bed without dinner, bath, and stories for the 2nd night in a row), I realize more than ever that with an extremely intelligent child, you have to keep things in check. We don't want intelligence veering off onto the wrong path.

So I had a little chat with Mr. Po this afternoon (clearly it didn't have the impact I'd hoped, seeing as he's on day 2 of lockdown). I said something pretty close to "Buddy, we've had a rough time, lately, and I'd like to talk to you about it." He snuggled up close. Ahhh.

"You have been really disrespectful, and that's disappointing because you are usually such a sweet boy. You've been really mad and upset, and I want you to know that it's okay to be mad and upset at me, but it's not okay to [throw all the laundry I've just folded all around the house with a giggle] disrespect my time and my belongings, [shove your sister because she has the purple crayon and that's your favorite color] touch your sister out of anger, or [allow your head to spin in circles, thrashing about on the ceiling and vomiting foul language as if Satan has...], scream the way you do when you're frustrated. It's okay to be mad, but you have to use the words you have and let me know how you feel rather than behaving like a banshee (yes, I said 'banshee,' and, yes, that is in Po's vocabulary.). What's going on? Are you upset about something? Please tell me how you feel."

Po declares, "I'm really mad at you, Mommy, because you're mean, and you hurt my feelings."

"Really?" I inquire from my [spoiled brat of a motha-] darling son. "How so?"

"Well, you say no to candy and gummy worms...and you make me eat a healthy lunch...and you say no when I want three gummy worms."

"Well, I can understand your frustration [do you even have a clue what my life frustrations are? I'm going to eat all the f-ing gummy worms right now you ungrateful little], love. I think I'm a pretty cool mom, and I think I do a lot of nice things for you. Can you think of just one nice thing I've done for you lately?"

"You bought me gummy worms."

Fatherhood?

I was watching "Olivia" with the kids today. In the episode, Olivia took her cat and dog and made them "babies," pushing them around in a stroller, putting them down for a nap (exactly what I used to do as a child), all the while, Olivia was lamenting about the trials of motherhood. Porter thought it was hilarious. I asked him, "do you want to have kids someday?" He nodded. "So you want to be a daddy when you grow up?"

He said "No, I want to be you."

There are no words for how wonderful that made me feel.

Understanding the Yield

Porter almost always walks in the grocery store while I push Cam in the cart. It can be a bit of a headache, but I think it helps him learn to follow directions, and he enjoys it, so I allow it, as long as he is listening.

He has this tendency to choose to cross an aisle RIGHT when someone is trying to pass with a cart or squeeze by to grab a bunch of broccoli, and he has had about 99 near-death experiences because of this, not to mention the fact that people almost get whiplash trying to stop in time so as not to run him over. I know this is a tough concept (the "I'm not the center of the world and there are other people who exist and move around me" one), so I'm patient, but I do make him say "excuse me" each time he narrowly avoids a collision. Thank goodness people are always friendly about it.

We were in the grocery store today and the produce section was pretty crowded, so I knew it would be a challenge. He had a couple of near misses, and, then, for the first time, he allowed someone else's cart to pass between us...in front of him...and he looked...and he stopped...he yielded! I gave him a smile, but didn't say anything.

Once the person passed and he was in the clear, he darted over to me and said "Mommy! I have to tell you something. My body was telling me that it wanted to go, but my other body was telling me that I should stop. I listened to the stop body!"

"Way to go, Po!" High 5's all around.

Mind Your Manners

Porter and Cam and I were at the fish counter at Sprouts today, and I asked for some stuffed clams, "please." Porter said, "Wow, Mommy, that was really good manners!"

I'm certain that wasn't the first time I've used the word, "please." It can't be the first time he's noticed, can it? He certainly noticed the very first time I said "shit" in front of him.

Mommy's Restaurant

Things are usually pretty hectic in the morning in our house, as I'm sure is the case in many homes across America. Babies crying, teenagers pondering life, coffee brewing...I'm usually scrambling to get breakfast made for everyone, B's lunch packed, and lucky if I have a chance to pour myself a cup of Joe.

I toasted up some frozen organic maple-cinnamon waffles this morning, usually a fan favorite, and Po declares in his sassiest tone, "I didn't order a waffle! I ordered cereal!"

If there was ever proof that I'm a short-order cook...

FB Friends

I logged into Facebook this morning to tag my husband in a photo, and his profile didn't show up for me. My profile said "married," but did not have the usual link for my husband's name. I announced in a sarcastic tone "well, honey, I guess we're not 'friends' anymore!"

After pondering for a minute, Po asked "why are you not friends anymore?"

Oops.

Cracked Cup

Porter threw one of his favorite cups, and it cracked. I told him that since he was treating it with disrespect and it broke, we'd have to throw it away. He replied, "we shouldn't throw it away. We should recycle it."

Duh. Why didn't I think of that?