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."