A Busy Week

Well, busy month, really. Or two months, maybe. April and May tend to be that way--so it's not a surprise that I'm glad to see the tail end of them. But the last week and a half or so has been especially busy.

Aunt Molly was here for much of it, "enjoying" the kids. After a little better than a week of sleepless nights, I think we've given Molly a pretty good idea of what it's like to have kids. I'm telling you, if we, as a nation, want to take teenage pregnancy seriously, we need to establish some sort of outreach program where high schoolers spend a couple weeks living with someone who has an infant. I guarantee, after having to stay awake with those kids for two weeks--and then go on to function in the real world after--these kids will realize exactly how much they DON'T want to have a kid yet.

So, here was our last week.

It started with Adoption Day. Hurray! As far as I'm concerned, this is the end for me. No more kids. Unless we're cursed . . . I mean blessed, to have one of our own, we're done. I'm ready to move away from the baby raising stage of life. While babies are cute, they really don't have much else going for them. Toddlers are FAR more interesting.

But, with this adoption day, we made Norah an official part of the family, which is fantastic. The day itself went fairly well, too. We started off at the courthouse. From what we've been told, they start the days with the adoptions since they are the bright points for most of the judges and they like to begin on a high note. So, as soon as things were up and running, we were hustled into the courtroom where we spent something like five minutes doing the last little bit of stuff that needed to be done to make things official. It took far longer for us to take pictures than it took to finish any of the legal proceedings.

Us with the judge. I think his name was Dredd. Or maybe Judy. Can't remember.

Norah with her new bear. Our foster care provider (or maybe it's the court system) gives adopted children a teddy bear on Adoption Day. Gabe got a little black one that we named Burgess after the judge. This one will be Parker (there's an obscure newspaper comic reference for you folks) or Roy Scream (followed up by a Six Flags over Texas reference).

I've never seen a small child look so smug before.

After court, we went to breakfast (where we took no pictures) and then to the zoo. Because Kansas' weather is becoming more unreasonable every year, it felt like mid-July at the zoo that day. The temperature was only in the 90s (ha! I said "only"), but the humidity was somewhere around 85%. It was miserable. But we endured the zoo, for a little while anyway--right up to the point where the kids started melting down because they were missing nap time. Then we called it a day.

We really hoped to get a picture of her hamming it up in front of the big monkeys with this hat on so we could have matching pictures of her and Gabe doing the same thing, but she hated the hat (and, because her head is so big, the chin strap was nearly cutting off the circulation to her chins), so we just took one picture of her in it before we left the car and called it good.

Near the end of the day, Libby arranged for a friend of hers to give a little demonstration in the education center at the zoo. She read a story then let the kids pet a pair of rats. One of them was hairless and looked (and felt) like a scrotum. Education!

And that was Adoption Day, more or less.

Other things happened, too, over the week, and we took pictures whenever we thought about it. I'll post them and comment as I go because, frankly, I can't really remember what all happened, exactly, over the past two weeks.

Showing uncharacteristic resourcefulness (probably because Molly was here), we actually managed to use some of the fruit that grows naturally on our property. Here, Molly and Gabe gather up mulberries from the big tree in our back yard.

Gabe with his mulberries. These were the ones that we managed to bring inside. He ate at least this many more as they were handed to him.

Once the mulberries were picked, I took them inside to make muffins, which meant that Norah had to come outside to play (since she hates sitting in her high chair watching me cook). She's quite taken to the sandbox over the last month.

Though she's taken to the sandbox, she still hasn't learned that she shouldn't eat the sand. Every time she's in there, at least one handful goes into her mouth. Libby was kind enough to get the picture of her disgusting, snotty, gritty face for all posterity. Later that night, as I got her changed for bed (and AFTER a bath), I spent about five minutes and used a handful of wipes to wipe the sand out of the folds of her neck. Ugh.

Finn came over for a playdate, too. Libby and Molly took them shopping before playing and bought them both hats. Gabe actually kept it on for awhile, which was unusual. Want to know something funny? Gabe's hat is a 2-4T size. Finn's is a 5-7. Kris said that he's given Finn one of his old hats already, and it pretty much fits. Big heads are funny! I feel safe pointing this out as I already made fun of my baby's massive melon earlier in this post. Oh, and what you can't see in this picture is the plumber's crack both of them are sporting.

While Molly was here, we went through pretty close to three cases of Diet Coke. It was like she and Libby were having a contest to see who could drink the most. Gabe, apparently, likes it too. I've tried to steer him clear of anything soda-like for three years, but now he's getting old enough that he doesn't have a problem finding our drinks and making them his own. Now we have a choice--give up soda so he doesn't get it, or live with the fact that he, too, will likely end up a soda junkie like his parents (especially his mother--I try to restrict myself to about one can's worth of soda a day, but I pretty much ALWAYS have that can's worth). It's a tough call.

Since I was already on the subject, might as well include another picture. This was from later in the week, and includes another of Gabe's friends--Mara. Libby liked this picture because they look like grown-ups enjoying a day at the spa. Libby (and Mara's mom, Libby--I know, confusing) sat there and humored the kids every request, allowing them the fantasy of enjoying a stay at a five star resort. Now, if I were to sit there like that, asking for drinks and service, she wouldn't think it was cute at all--and humoring me would be the last thing on her mind. Why is that?

Also this week, Gabe got new jammies. He had pretty much outgrown all of the novelty pjs he got last fall, so it was time for a fresh set. He got several pairs including this superhero costume (to replace his old one). This one even has a little cape that velcros onto the back (pretty much exactly like his stuffed dinosaur Soupie has). The sunglasses and hat were also purchased on this shopping trip, and he's shown an unusual interest in wearing both of them.

Molly flying Super Gabe around the room.

One of his other sets of pjs--the doctor. Libby tried to find out what kind of doctor he was last night, but he was reluctant to tell us--which means he's embarrassed about it, which means he's a proctologist. Oh well. At least he'll never hurt for work--everyone has a butt.

And, finally, we topped off the weekend by getting rid of the kids for a night and having our annual wine party. No pictures or stories worth sharing, really. We had great fun and everyone got pretty well inebriated (AND we got to sleep in until like 9:00 the next morning!), so it was a resounding success as far as I was concerned.

Of Birthdays and Minions

Yesterday we celebrated both kids' birthdays with a backyard extravaganza. No fewer than 200 children were involved. Or at least it felt like that many. It was chaos. Molly--who has been here since Thursday--and Libby spent the better part of Saturday planning things out and setting things up. They even made a map of the backyard for where certain activities should go. It was very cute. The Love girls, apparently, take this shit very seriously.

But I'll get to the party in a moment because, as we were going through the pictures of the party last night, I found some Play-Doh pictures that I took earlier last week with the intention of posting them, but then I forgot. So I'll deal with those first.

While Gabe and I were playing with his Doh, he struck upon the idea of creating an army. His notion of "army" is still a little fuzzy, though (and he still isn't clear because he had me repeat the process today), as he refers to each soldier I create as "army." Thus, when I created each of his little men, he said, "Make another army, please," as he took the new recruit and lined him up.

Not entirely excited about the prospects of my three year old plotting war strategies already, I convinced him, instead, to line up each of his little men (and, later, creatures) into a queue to eat some of the birthday cake I'd made out of Play-Doh a little earlier.

Gabe learns a valuable lesson about queuing. The "birthday cake" in the little plate at the head of the queue looks, pretty much, exactly like the birthday cake on his plate at his birthday party ended up as he tore it apart to eat all the frosting off it.

But that's about all I have to say about that. Gabe's showing an interest in forming an army. Probably that's something else I should keep an eye on.

Oh yeah! Speaking of things to keep an eye on, Gabe offered to "fight" both Libby and I in the past couple of days when we've told him to do something he didn't want to. He didn't seem to have much of a concept of what was involved in the fighting, and we had some pretty stern words about the matter, but there it is. I think the next time he offers I will take a moment to explain the concept of "choosing your battles" and the very relevant concept of not picking a fight with someone who weighs about five times what you do. Maybe that will clear things up a little for him.

On to the party. I'm not thinking that I want to relive this particular event just yet, so how about I just select some of the best pictures and fill in what blanks I can, minus the running commentary.

After letting the kids get a taste of the messes that awaited them (and a little mingling by the parents), we opened presents. Norah went first. Mostly the rest of the other girls did the work for her. She got WAY more crap than any one year old should ever get.

Then it was Gabe's turn. Last Christmas was the first time that he truly grasped the concept of opening presents, so he went at it with gusto this go-round. Again WAY more crap than any three year old should ever get (we're going to have to closet some toys or start giving them away because our house has officially reached critical mass).

Because she still refuses to sleep when we want her to, Norah was SUPER cranky all day thanks to a napless afternoon. When she wasn't the center of attention, she was a crabby little stinker. Until she fell asleep on Liz's lap. Then she took just enough of a nap to keep her awake but cranky until bed time.

Norah's cake. Gabe had one too, but it wasn't as "special" as this one. Notice the smiley face on it. I added the name and the face. Note the terrible job I did. I'm guessing I won't be invited to compete in any cake-based reality challenge programs any time soon. Good thing she's too young to remember.

Before we ate cake and ice cream, we set the kids loose on the sprinklers (it was a balmy low 90s yesterday, so it was the perfect weather for it). We forgot to cinch up Gabe's swimsuit, so he was looking pretty "gangsta" (which, from what I gather, roughly translates as "someone who is proud of plumber's crack") throughout the afternoon.

Gabe ate three pieces of cake. In less than five minutes. And he's been a little ticked a couple times today to find out that all of his cake got eaten. I think he was looking forward to the cake more than the presents, even.

The obligatory picture of a child feeding cake to him/herself on her first birthday. Because she was passed out when we did the cake and ice cream, we actually forgot about this for awhile, but still had a piece left over, so, before bath time, we let her at it. Gabe wasn't impressed by his cake when he turned one. But Gabe didn't like his food like Norah does. She snarfed it all down.

And, finally, one of those pictures that my child will hate me for eventually. Awesome.

The kids, blowing bubbles. An art they haven't quite mastered yet.

Gabe with the T-Ball set that Uncle Jebes got him. Shortly after the video, he started smacking the ball pretty consistently. Since he's showing no proclivity for throwing or catching, but he's pretty good at hitting, my guess is that he's got a successful career as a designated hitter ahead of him.

And that's that. We got a little video of Norah eating her cake, but, really, she did it with such skill and relative grace that it didn't make for a terribly interesting video (plus, Blogger is playing silly buggers with the video again today, and I'm not even sure if these first two videos will post, so I'm done messing with it).

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I am not an insomniac. I've had my problems with sleep over the years, but that is not one of them. Were I to ever go an entire night without ANY sleep, as with true insomnia, I would be a complete wreck the next day. I've tried sleepless nights a few times over the years and they have all ended the same way, with me feeling sick to my stomach and utterly miserable--not to mention completely useless--until I got some proper sleep.

Round about late grade school/early high school, however, I began to track something that I started to refer to as "semi-insomnia." While I wasn't kept up all night, I found it impossible to get to sleep before sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning, which mean I only got a half night of sleep. Though I started keeping track of when it happened around this time, and came up with a not-quite-accurate name for it, it was something that I suffered from since early childhood.

During college, I figured out what the problem was. Thanks to more flexible class scheduling, an abundance of things to do in the middle of the night, and no parental supervision, I learned that my body clock naturally wants me to sleep from 3:00 until 11:00 in the morning (over the years I've been able to bump that back from 1:00-9:00, but it's still hardly what you'd call a "workable" sleep table).

Mostly, I've been able to adapt. I still rarely get to sleep before midnight, but I've found that I an function--albeit inefficiently--with only five or six hours of sleep at night. But, every once in awhile, I'm struck by a case of semi-insomnia, and there are few things in the world that I find more frustrating or irritating. Being one of nature's clock watchers, every five minutes that passes tosses and turning in bed registers very clearly in my mind as five minutes LESS that I will be sleeping that night. Thus the frustration and irritation.

Anyway, last night, I had another bout of semi-sleeplessness. I finally got to sleep around 2:30, but it took a great deal of coaxing on my part, including an act of desperation that I never in my wildest dreams thought I would consider.

In early childhood, when I couldn't sleep, I used a number of methods to try and self-sooth myself to sleep. Often I rocked against the wall my bed butted up to (my parents eventually had to put carpet down in my room because I had worn a groove with the feet on my bed into the hardwood floors, from the bed being rocked away from the wall about six inches at night), but sometimes I slept under the covers with my head at the foot the bed.

This was my comfort method of choice when I was having some of my bad dreams. I remember two instances specifically. Once I was hiding from Darth Vader, the second I was hiding from that goddamn clown nightlight. Both times, I carried on quite long and involved conversations with Luke Skywalker, hatching plans of attack should the bed become compromised and generally trying to convince myself that I was actually safe in my bed. And, both times, I fell asleep down there, feeling half smothered when I woke up the next morning from the complete lack of circulation.

I remembered the success of these endeavors last night as I destroyed my bedding with all my tossing and turning. So I gave it a try. With all the grace and aplomb one would expect from someone in his mid-30s, I maneuvered my way down to the foot of my bed. Granted, the result wasn't quite the same since my feet were sticking out the top of the covers, but, I assure you, my top half was quite well secured.

Sadly--possibly because I'm beyond the point in my life where I can carry on a soothing conversation with an imaginary Jedi, or maybe just because feather comforters let in FAR less oxygen than the standard issue one I used as a child--it was not successful. Feeling deprived of air, I abandoned my great experiment just five minutes into it. Eventually, I went to sleep feeling rather foolish (maybe shame is what I need to go to sleep at night--there's a thought!), so I thought I'd share. At least that way something positive might come of it.

Potty Training Is Less Stupid

Over the past few months, as we've fought, off and on, with Gabe's potty training, we've often lamented to other parents about the ordeal it had become. Invariably, we were met with one response: "When he's ready, it will just sort of happen."

Because I am a very polite person, I always replied, "It needs to goddamn happen, goddamn soon, then," and the other parents nodded knowingly and we moved on to the next bitch-worthy topic. But, despite my gracious and urbane demeanor, I always secretly scoffed at this little bit of advice. See, I had been burned before by seemingly well-meaning and helpful parents who were passing on their hard-earned wisdom.

There is a long list of advice that parents will give other parents, or prospective parents, that should ALWAYS be received with equal parts skepticism and cynicism. See, one thing that few parents will admit to others is that the old adage "misery loves company" is never more alive and well than in the parenting game, and they will use a series of half-truths and rose-colored adages to convince others to join in their pain. There are a range of reasons why parents do this--ranging from jealousy to basic stupidity, and covering several options in between--but we needn't go into that here. Books could be written on the subject (and, if because of my suggesting it, one is, I expect at least a mention in the Thank Yous at the end).

For instance, before we had kids, all we ever heard from anyone was that having kids was the greatest thing ever. Everything about having kids was wonderful. If anything even mildly negative was let slip, it was always suffixed with "But it's totally worth it." Never was the fact that sleep would be a stranger for multiple YEARS mentioned, or that having kids would make doing anything even remotely fun an ordeal (and, in fact, most things are done for the KIDS to have fun, never the parents because, frankly, the parents are too caught up trying to make sure the kids stay safe and out of everyone else's hair to even let their guard down for a few minutes).

But, to anyone out there who doesn't have kids but is considering it, it's totally worth it. No, seriously. Frustrating as hell at times, but worth it. You'll want to pull your hair out (what little you have left, because the years of not sleeping, eating properly, or exercising will take a pretty terrible toll on your body) at times, but who needs hair when you're already old and haggard, right?

(Side Story: I've been working on this post off and on through the morning--whenever the kids have been sufficiently entertained on their own to allow me to break away for a few minutes. As I was working a little while ago, Gabe came down the stairs--he'd been watching a movie upstairs--and said, "I need to pee pee in the potty." For the time being, this translates as "I already pee peed in my pants and want to sit on the toilet for two seconds then have you put some new clothes on me." So I led him into the bathroom and pulled down his pants to find a lump of smushy poop in his underwear--and now spread down his leg since I didn't notice it before taking his clothes off. He still has NO interest in crapping in the toilet, and, in fact, doesn't seem to even recognize the fact that he needs to poop or even HAS pooped. So we've been leaving him in a diaper in the morning until he has his poop then moving to underwear. He's usually a one-poop-a-day kind of guy, so we're usually safe doing this. Except this morning.

So, anyway, I tell him to stand still in the bathroom so I can get some wipes and clean him up. I ask him to bend over so I can get him wiped and get to cleaning. As I'm doing so, I explain to him that he MUST try to tell me BEFORE he poops so we can do it on the toilet too, and he replies, "It's all part of the plan."

This, I should note, is the catch phrase of Special Agent Oso on the pre-K show on Disney in the mornings, so the fact that he said it wasn't all that interesting. The CONTEXT, though, has me a little worried.)

Then, after we had our first kid well established and started thinking about a second, we were again bombarded with helpful advice from everyone who'd already had their second kid. "Having two kids is actually easier than having just one," they swore. "They entertain each other and make the day-to-day caring of them MUCH easier!" "Well," we thought, "we certainly like easier."

What these parents failed to mention, however, is that the "easier" part doesn't start to happen until the youngest child is getting around the house freely and is capable of offering mild entertainment to the older child. We are JUST starting to see this happen, almost a full year later. So, technically, what these parents said was true, they just failed to mention the entire year in between the child's birth and it becoming a semi-productive member of the household, which is filled with entertaining TWO children instead of just one.

And on and on. Just about any sunny-dispositioned load of bull pucky parents can feed another parent, they will feed. I guess it's just the nature of the game (and I know for damn sure that, given the opportunity, I'll inflict the same nearly-bogus information onto other unsuspecting saps--it's what they deserve for listening to my advice instead of just going with their own guts, as far as I'm concerned!).

So, naturally, I just figured this one about potty training was a bunch of diaper filling crap, too. It didn't stand to reason that a kid would just "know" when they were ready and start cooperating accordingly. Our kid doesn't "know" not to jump head first off the couch, and basic survival skills seem like they would trump hygiene skills.

But, over the past few days, Gabe has begun to show an understanding of, and appreciation for, the toilet using process. Obviously, as my side story illustrated, we've got a LONG way to go before potty training becomes less work than changing a diaper every couple hours, but there are marked signs of improvement, which was something I was convinced we would never see (remember, not too long ago, I was sure that Gabe would be wearing diapers in middle school), and it's all been Gabe's doing.

Sunday, quite out of the blue, he decided that he wanted to wear underwear and didn't want to have ANYTHING to do with a diaper. So we obliged. He still isn't very good at telling us when he needs to go, so hopefully that's something that will develop (because I don't fancy asking him every hour if he needs to pee pee until he gets into middle school--imagine the cell phone disturbances as I ask him in the middle of his classes throughout each day, if nothing else), but he managed to stay totally dry Sunday and yesterday because I asked him every hour if he needed to go and made him sit on the toilet every two hours whether he thought he needed to or not. And he was VERY proud of sticking with it--enough so that I think it made a real connection in his brain between being a big boy and using the toilet.

So, you know, hurray. I look forward to spending about $70 a month less on diapers. Maybe I can put the money into a savings account so I can use it to pay for his cell charges in middle school.

A Busy Weekend

As it happens, May is a bit on the busy side. Even without having kids in school, we've still managed to have a google million things going on, and it really doesn't look as though it will be letting up until the last weekend of the month. Then, thankfully, things should start to go back to normal.

Last weekend, we had our third of four trips to the zoo this month and a birthday party for Gabe's friend Finn.

I'm not sure I see the necessity of going to the zoo so many times in a single month. Of course, I've never seen the zoo as an interesting entertainment option to begin with. I can't say with any degree of certainty, but if I had to estimate, I think I probably visited the zoo all of a dozen times by the time I graduated from high school. Possibly fewer times than that. We seemed to go about every other year on field trips, and my folks took us a few times, but that was it. And except for having a distinct memory that the Jungle exhibit was too hot and stuffy, I really don't have any memories of the zoo--it made that little of an impression on me.

Libby, however, grew up going to the zoo all the time. From the way she talks about it, one would assume that her family held a timeshare burrow in the prairie dog town as much time as they spent there.

At any rate, we went back again Saturday. It rained most of the time we were there--great for keeping the crowds down, which was just fine by me.

When we got to the orangutan exhibit, one of the big monkeys was sitting right by the glass (yes, I know they aren't monkeys, but I like to call them that just to irritate Libby). Gabe, seeing a kindred spirit, immediately sought to bond with it. This turned out to be too much for the orangutan to bear, though, as it soon fled to the furthest point in its cage.

Then, for reasons known only to him, Gabe decided that he needed to pick the noses of all three of the commemorative bears, which he did with OCD-like procession.

Bear Two.

And a nifty little backhand pick for the third bear.

The birthday party, then, was great fun. Jessica (Finn's mom) went to a great deal of trouble to set up party games--including a pinata (though it had pull strings on it to release the candy instead of having the kids bash themselves and everyone around them to get the candy--which begged the question, "What's the point?" If it's not going to make America's Funniest Home Videos, then pinatas don't really have much purpose, in my opinion) and pin the tail on the donkey. It was actually stick the donkey sticker on the donkey, I guess, which was probably a much better idea than giving a mess of three year olds a tack to poke themselves with. For most of them, this was the first time they'd ever played the game. For Gabe, it was the first time he'd ever been deprived of his sight (except, obviously, when it's dark).

He actually dealt with it quite well. He stood still and listened to the instructions and carefully stepped forward to stick the donkey tail sticker on the donkey (on its head, so, sadly, he didn't win--but a good go for a first try). The way I see it, it was like putting blinders on a horse. It kept him uncharacteristically focused. It might be something to consider on a regular basis for those times when he won't listen and he can't seem to stop running around in circles.

I like this picture because it proves that it's NATURAL to open one's mouth when feeding something to someone else. I do it a lot, embarrassingly enough, when I'm feeding Norah. As if seeing my mouth open will encourage her to do the same thing. Or, perhaps, it only proves that I am only as advanced as a three year old. I've suspected as much for some time now, and I doubt I'd hear many arguments to the contrary from Libby.

And here's a little video of the feeding.

Next weekend is the double birthday party for Norah and Gabe! Weeeee!!!! He's certainly excited. All he's talked about this morning is the presents that he's going to get this weekend. As if he needs more crap than he already has. He has so much stuff, he doesn't even know what he's got. We can pack it away in the closet and he won't even notice it's gone until we get it out again and he's excited to play with it. Kids.

Can't Catch Me

This afternoon, we're having some weather. It's the second time this week. Tornado warnings have been issued and funnel clouds have been spotted. Hail the size of tennis balls has been spotted. So far, we've gotten a sprinkle out of it. Such is the roller coaster ride of Kansas weather.

Despite my attempts to explain to Gabe the possible severity of the situation (I've got the 24 hour local radar channel that runs non-stop weather coverage when storms are near on in the background), complete with a detailed explanation of how he can best interpret the radar and our location on the map relative to Wichita (where the weather is being reported), Gabe took a Nero-esque approach to the chaos that was going on around him. Only, since he doesn't have a fiddle, and his Gabba guitar is, blessedly, upstairs where we don't have to listen to it all the time, Gabe did what comes naturally to him instead. He ran around in circles. He was obviously trying to stay away from Norah, though she really didn't show all that much interest in pursuing him.

I started this video about two minutes after he started, I estimate. By this time, Norah was already starting to lose interest, but Gabe wasn't.

After five minutes of not filming, I decided to go ahead and start it back up again because he was STILL going. And, I decided, that I was going to film it every five minutes until he stopped.

Oh, and excuse the dining room table. It's a disaster. It's Gabe's "big boy table" where everything non-Norah friendly has to be kept. So, not surprisingly, it's always covered to the point of being unusable. That's not an excuse for the rest of the dining room and living room being a mess, of course. For that I only have my frustration at the futility of keeping things clean all through the day--which ultimately led to me giving up on it entirely until bed time--to blame.

After this go, we had a little break. Rather, Norah and I did. Gabe kept trying to convince both of us that we should be chasing him around the table. But, honestly, how interesting is THAT? Norah and I had the right idea to move on.

However, she started doing something pretty weird herself. As she rolled around on the pillows in the living room, she started making this weird noise. I couldn't figure out what she was doing at first. But I did manage to get it on video.

This is her new trick. She's been doing it ever since (about two hours now, more or less continuously). Guess it's nice she finally found a use for all the slobber she's got going for her.

And, then, Gabe started running again. He didn't stop until Libby got home from work. By my count, he spent almost forty-five minutes running around the table, only stopping occasionally to beg Norah or I to chase him (I didn't bother to stick with my "every five minutes" thing because, frankly, I got bored and he wasn't being as entertaining as I'd hoped he'd be).

I'm not sure how we're going to contain this kid's energy once he has to start sitting in a classroom all day. That will be fun. For this he added the slipper running shoes and decided that, if Norah wasn't going to chase him, he'd use her as a hurdle. And, clearly, I shouldn't have chuckled when he threw the first truck. He's been trying to throw his trucks ever since.

The Scrunched Up Smiling Face Is Universal

When Gabe was about a year old, he started doing this weird smiling face. We got gobs of pictures of him doing it, but this was by far the finest:

This picture is awesome because it looks like he's responding to the big monkey butt in the window, though I somehow doubt that is the case since he STILL doesn't laugh at farts (which is beyond comprehension to me), so I doubt he was grasping such butt humor around one year old.

And, just because I was looking at old pictures, I'm going to include some others that made me smile. This might not LOOK like a smile, but it was. Gabe was not a naturally smiley baby, so I assume he just stuck with what he knew--frowning--and ran with it.

My kids are a mess.

That should proof beyond a doubt that it wasn't a fluke. He did it pretty regularly when the camera was in front of him.

Naturally, I assumed it was just Gabe. He's always been a ham, so I just figured these were the first signs of his hamming nature. But now I have indisputable proof that it's something ALL babies do because Norah has also started doing it (thus, 100% of all of our babies do it, and you just can't argue with those percentages).

Now, Butts IS a smiley baby, so she's got it down right from the beginning.

And just to prove that it wasn't a one time occurrence, I went ahead and took several pictures of her. Each time she presented me with a similar "cheese" face.

Please excuse the nastiness on her shirt. It's chocolate Cheerios. They make her drooly. Possibly because the box is almost two months old. She's the only one in the house who will eat them. Even Gabe thought they were gross (and I've always hated chocolate cereal--which is the exception to the Pat Loves Sugary Cereal rule).

Though, I don't see how stale cereal could possibly make a baby drool more than usual. We THINK she's getting those next four teeth in--the four teeth that she started the first part of the year. The damn things started to break through then sucked back in. Now they appear to be breaking through again. They better commit this time because it hardly seems fair that she'd have to suffer through the discomfort and sleepless nights more than twice with a single set of teeth.

Actually, I hope this is a sign that she will also be a ham. I love the idea of having two entertaining kids.

Beige Is My Favorite Color

One of the best things about Gabe being conversationally fluent in English is, well, the conversations. Finally, we've progressed to the point where I'm doing more than endlessly repeating words so that he can learn them and we can actually have some back and forth communication. And often it's awesome.

This afternoon, for instance, I sat down with Gabe at the dining room table (which is unsuitable for eating at now thanks to the inundation of every surface with play-doh and play-doh accessories) to play with his play-doh. We opened the containers which, not surprisingly, all contained roughly the same color--a kind of mottled light brown thanks to the colors not ENTIRELY mixing yet. Every day he complains that he wants different colors, and then, every day, when two colors are opened, he proceeds to mix them together without a second thought. Some day he'll put the elimination of his color options together with his careless mixing--and, frankly, that's a day I'm eagerly awaiting.

Anyway, Gabe is very familiar with the color beige thanks to the show Imagination Movers. On the show, there is a character named Knit Knots. His only goal in life is to be incredibly boring (he's actually a pretty amusing character, some times, as in the time he decided to make a music CD of very boring music. The music was a single note played on a tuba that he modified so it only COULD play one note--B flat. "The "b" is for boring, and the flat makes it EXTRA boring." For some reason, that made me laugh. Probably because my standards for humor, thanks to nothing but preschool programming, have sunk to record depths). As part of that goal, he only wears beige clothes. ENTIRELY beige clothes. The movers even have a song about creating the proper beige color, and in the song, as they are mixing colors, they announce that their end goal is to make "boring, boring, boring, boring beige."

Because of this, Gabe has stopped calling beige, "beige" and, instead, has renamed it "boring." When identifying the color of something light brown in or around our house, he'll point at it and say "That's boring!"

So, right after I got the play-doh out, I identified it as beige and then, rather off-handedly, I added, "Beige is boring, isn't it."

Then, in a rather stern voice that pulled off an admonishing tone that I was rather surprised he accomplished so well, Gabe corrected me by saying, "Beige is a NICE color, Daddy."

I quickly corrected myself by saying, "Some people really like beige, you're right."

"Beige is my FAVORITE color," he declared.

Hmm. This one loses a little something in the retelling. It struck me as very funny at the time. Perhaps I'm just a little punchy today. Norah was up with her teeth until about midnight last night then woke up from 4:00-6:30 this morning, slept for a little over an hour, then was in a pretty god-awful mood the rest of the morning. But neither Libby nor I got much sleep last night (contrary to what she'd have you believe, SHE was the one that got more sleep last night because I stayed up with Norah until midnight--so I do my part, sometimes anyway).

I forgot that Gabe stole (supposedly was "given," but I have my doubts considering his sticky fingers) a tub of orange by Finn Wednesday night, which he opened up and added to the beige melange. Thus the extra color. I'm not entirely sure where he got his paint mixing information, but it seems a bit faulty, too (though he MIGHT have been talking about mixing all of the colors together to make beige, because that's what they did in the song on Movers). And, as usual, Norah was close at hand. Her favorite thing to do right now is to sit at Gabe's feet while he plays at the table. I'm not sure what I should read into that, but I'm pretty sure there will be no hint of "subservience" in her personality as it develops. She's pretty firmly established herself as the boss of our household and seems all too comfortable with that role. Also, at the end there, if anyone has any idea what he's saying, I'd love to hear it. I think I made out "white and boring makes green," but that's about it.

The Things That Scare Kids

Over the past few weeks, Gabe has been waking up and saying he's scared, suggesting that he's been having some nightmares from time to time. Every time I've asked him (until this afternoon), he's not been very forthcoming on what, exactly, he dreamed that scared him. One time, I'm pretty sure I know what it was, even though he couldn't describe it to me. Last weekend, we decided to let Gabe watch the new episode of Doctor Who with us. By Hollywood standards, it was a pretty tame episode, but Gabe was up in the middle of the night with a nightmare, so maybe three years old isn't QUITE old enough for science fiction monsters and robots.

Anyway, this afternoon, when I went to get him after his nap, he said, "I was scared."

"Of what?" I asked.

"The door," he said, pointing at the door into his room. "It changed to green and then to yellow."

And that, apparently, was it. It's too bad I paid for the whole seat, because I only needed the edge.

But I can hardly fault him for being scared of something so mundane. I have a very clear memory of the first nightmare that I found so terrifying that I couldn't go back to sleep. I'm guessing I was four or five years old. My cousin Renee (who was my only friend until grade school, just one of the drawbacks of growing up on a farm) and I were exploring this house. The house wasn't particularly spooky, as I recall. Just a house. But it was empty, except for a single chair in a big room. As we approached the chair, it started rocking by itself. And I woke up terrified beyond anything that I had ever known before. I wasn't thinking ghosts or anything spooky like that, either. I clearly remember that I was scared because the rocking chair started rocking all by itself, and that was the entirety of what was frightening about it. Weird.

But it did start off a string of bad dreams that really didn't stop until I was in high school. Somewhere about middle school age the dreams shifted from scary dreams to falling dreams--and I stuck with those pretty much exclusively throughout my life. I don't have many anymore, because I hardly ever remember my dreams now, but if I DO wake up from a dream, falling is involved.

Back to the earlier nightmares that I had. I was, apparently, a sponge for scary images growing up. If something was even mildly disturbing or possibly threatening, my subconscious incorporated it into some harrowing event. Three characters in particular kept cropping up, too. The first was Darth Vader when I was about seven or so. I didn't see the first two Star Wars movies until they made their way onto network television (I did see the third one in the theater, though--I remember counting telephone poles on the way home from the theater in Wichita, don't ask me why), but Darth stuck in my mind. Of course, like most boys my age, I was VERY into Star Wars, so it's not surprising that Darth worked his way into my dreams from time to time.

The second character was the werewolf from American Werewolf in London. The summer I turned ten, I was allowed (by my aunt and uncle, who I thought were the coolest ever since they let me watch stuff like this) to stay up late and watch American Werewolf on HBO. I regretted it for much of the next year. Werewolves were everywhere. But, then werewolves are pretty goddamn scary. Pretty much the most terrifying of the undead, if you ask me. All the fangs and claws and lightning fast movements. There isn't much you could do if one decided it wanted to see what your jugular looked like. So I can't fault myself for having those bad dreams. I'm a little surprised that I still don't.

And the third character was a clown. I might have mentioned the clown nightlight my grandma made for me when I was six or seven. It was something she made in a ceramics class. It stood about eight inches high and had all these little glass balls all over it that let the light out. So it was ALWAYS clearly visible in the darkness of my room, which meant that it was usually the last thing I saw before I went to sleep. I used to have dreams that the creepy little thing would use the electrical cord attached to its base (the clown itself was removable, so the light bulb inside could be replaced) to climb down from my dresser and down onto the floor. Since it didn't have a light inside it anymore at that point, I couldn't see it anymore and I always lost track of it. Then, it would proceed to move all over my room with the intent of causing mischief and harm, popping out of the dark just long enough for me to be terrified. I hated that goddamn nightlight--and I still hate clowns because of it. I hated it so much that I still have it somewhere on our property (but it's safely locked up in a big plastic container, wherever it is). I'll be damned if I'll let that thing get TOO far away from me. Who knows what damage it might cause.

Actually, I blame that dream, at least in part, on an episode of Fantasy Island in which this big collection of dolls started to come to life in order to cause menace. I've always wanted to see that episode again, just to see if it was even the least bit scary, because it sure caused me trouble over those early years. But I'd really rather not start remembering my dreams now that I've put all the nightmares behind me, so maybe I better not try to find it.

Update: Gabe just informed me that there were also dinosaurs involved in his dream. He accused Norah of being one of them when I brought her down from her nap. He said that I brought her down from his room, where the dinosaurs were hiding. Now, dinosaurs I have NO idea why he'd be scared of. He's seen plenty of them, of course. Preschool shows are FULL of them. But all of those dinosaurs are nice and not the least bit scary. Another one of those things that he's learned that I'll be damned if I know how. But dinosaurs are certainly worthy of a few nightmares. They rank right up there with werewolves in terms of how quickly a normal person SHOULD fill their pants if they were ever to come face to face with one.

Potty Training Is Stupid

I don't think there's been anything more irritating or frustrating that I've dealt with in regards to the kids than trying to potty train Gabe. I mean, there are certainly more irritating or frustrating MOMENTS, but nothing that's been such a protracted and seemingly hopeless battle as trying to get him to use the toilet. Except maybe their sleeping. But I can't really complain too much about that since Libby has been handling the night time duties almost exclusively for the past several months.

I don't get it, either. He's been able to recognize when he's gone or going to the bathroom since he was about 18 months old--several people even commented that he would be a breeze to potty train because of this fact. But that has been anything but the case. He does recognize when he's gone, but he seems incapable of identifying the feeling BEFORE he goes, and we've tried all sorts of gimmicks to coax him into cooperating. Even asking him every ten minutes if he needs to go until he finally does often doesn't help.

I tried that yesterday. I put him in a pair of underwear instead of his diaper or pull-up and asked him about every five minutes if he needed to go. Then I took a break from asking while he ate his dinner, and, sure enough, he peed all over himself and the dining room chair he was sitting on. And today, Libby took him out in the back yard to play in the sandbox, again wearing underwear. Eventually, she got tired of asking and just took off his pants so he'd HAVE to see when he went. She tried to get him to pee on all sorts of things, but, in the end, he had to sit down on a part of his sandbox and pee out into the yard. Even though he pees standing up as soon as he gets into the bath every time (usually after he spends a few minutes sitting on the toilet, not peeing)!

And forget about poop. He doesn't seem to have a clue what that feels like before it happens. Ugh.

To be honest, I spent a goodly portion of my waking hours worrying about all of the various things he's not getting done, and potty training is always at the front of the pack. I see him wearing a diaper in kindergarten, being relentlessly teased by everyone there--even the teacher, since he/she will have to do the cleaning up and will be understandably resentful. I remember in kindergarten, one of my classmates still dropped his pants and underwear all the way to the floor when the school year started, and most of the rest of us boys made fun of him until he cried. Kids are terrible human beings! But that kid wasn't even wearing a diaper, he was just dropping his pants to the floor! Gabe will be saddled with the stigma of being a poopy pants for the rest of his life! Argh! The stress of it all!

So that's fun.

We also got a few good videos tonight. Libby, in her infinite patience for mess making (though, admittedly, I'm the one who got to clean it all up, which probably helps her motivation for such tasks), helped Gabe make a chocolate pudding pie tonight. He had a ball, and the video might be one of the more amusing ones we've gotten of him in awhile.

(So, this video was too long to upload onto blogger, apparently. Instead, I posted it on youtube. Here it is.)

My favorite part is how he had to keep looking for clean arm spots to wipe his mouth on. Then, when he ran out, he started to lick an arm clean. Surprisingly, after dinner, he wasn't all that interested in eating any more, since he'd probably had half a package of pudding by that point.

Shortly after dinner, Gabe and Norah started a new game, where she opened up the diaper cabinet (her favorite toy right now, god knows why), and he ran over and closed it. I like the shit-eating grin on her face each time she opened it and turned back to see what Gabe was going to do about it. I tell you, she's going to be trouble for that boy, and she's going to be trouble on purpose.

Norah Eats Babies (and Stands Long Enough for a Picture)

It's weird. Boys and girls really DO seem to be hardwired to like certain types of toys more than others. Being a very metrosexual (following the "sensitive guy" meaning, not the fastidiously hygienic sense) fella, I've rather gone out of my way to try and avoid gender stereotypes or force gender roles onto our kids, choosing, instead, to let them find the toys that they identify with on their own (and avoiding pink with Norah, even though people keep buying the light red crap for her to wear!). To give them a fair shake, we've supplied both with ample toys that are generally associated with one gender or another (obviously Norah is WELL stocked with "boy" toys since Gabe's had two more years of collecting than she has had).

Gabe had an abundance of stuffed animals and a few "baby" dolls as well as TONS of play food and other cooking paraphernalia (by the way, what's up with that word? What's that "r" doing in the third syllable? I think someone just misspelled it in a dictionary and it stuck). He's played with the food off and on, and he has his few favorite stuffed animals that he sleeps with and occasionally snuggles with on the couch when he's watching a movie, but there's no denying that cars and trains and other things that "go" are by far his favorite toys--and he didn't have but one or two cars until his first birthday. There is no denying that he naturally gravitates towards the boy toys--especially considering he's already holding up his fingers and making laser gun noises, despite the fact that, to my knowledge, he's never seen anything with a laser of any sort in it yet.

And now Norah, despite having SO many cars and trucks and trains and what-not to play with easily within her grasp, seems to be gravitating towards the "girl" toys. She hasn't shown much interest in the general population of stuffed animals, yet, but she does seem to have a special inkling towards any of the baby dolls that we've got. She's even gotten to the point where she tries to carry them around with her from room to room.

Thus the name of this post.

Since she can't walk, she only has three ways to move an object along with her. She can throw it in front of her, scoot it along in front of her (or, sometimes, let it snag under her belly and drag it under her), or carry it in her mouth. The babies she usually carries in her mouth, like a very slow moving mama cat.

Mmmm. Baby hand.

She was carrying this baby by the hand, too, but dropped it while I ran to get the camera and picked it back up by its tag instead. Still, that tag is PART of a baby doll, so I imagine having it chomped on would hurt just as much as having a hand or foot bitten.

And then I also managed to get a picture of her standing up in front of the TV cabinet. She's actually progressing VERY rapidly--surprisingly rapidly, really. It hasn't even been a week since she pulled herself up for the first time and already she's starting to pull herself up on all sorts of furniture, she's taken a few steps in either direction to move towards something, and early today she climbed a stair. While we were vacuuming the lower level, we foolishly let her roam around for a bit and she found the un-gated stairway. Up to this point, when she's found it, she's spent most of her time trying to pinch her fingers in the gate, but this time she decided to climb. She made it up the first step when we saw her.

Gonna have to keep a close eye on this one. She's trouble.


And speaking of trouble, get a load of this:

He's even wearing Uncle James' old helmet. How appropriate!

Nap Motivator

So, today I stumbled upon what appears to be a good motivation for Gabe to take a nap. Sadly, it's not one that I can use very often, but I'll take what I can get.

There is a car show of some sort in Newton today. This isn't surprising. The good people of this city will use pretty much any excuse to get their classic cars out to parade around town. Despite their frequency, however, we've not taken Gabe to a car show yet. Today that will probably change (I say "probably" because it is entirely up to Libby, since she's the one who thought it would be a fun idea--and now that I've promised it to Gabe, it will be her that dashes his dream, not me, which is a nice change as I'm usually the one who has to say "no" to whatever whim he fancies). As Gabe was finishing up his lunch a little while ago, I said, "And if you take a good nap, Momma is going to take you somewhere for a treat this afternoon."

"A treat?" he asked, his eyes lighting up. "For me?"

"Yep. A special treat."

"Is it candy?"

"No. She's taking you some place special."

"Is it a toy?"

"Nope. It's a surprise."

"Surprise? What's that?" He likes to ask that question even though he knows the answer, so I simply bypassed a real explanation since the concept of "surprise" is a bit on the nebulous side.

"It's some place special, but you won't know where it is until you get there."

"Is it candy?" Here we went into a rather lengthy back and forth while he made multiple guesses. I'll skip my responses, but I'll share his questions because some of them were pretty funny.

"Is it a toy? Is it pie? Is it ice cream? Is it candy? Is it a toy? Is it a robot? Is it a toilet? Is it candy?" I'm not sure how the robot and toilet work into his concept of "treat." Who knows how his brain works. It certainly is candy-centric, though, there's no denying that.

This guessing game was one of the funnier things we've done lately and I would have encouraged him to keep guessing for a few more minutes, but eventually ALL of his guesses were either "toy" or "candy," so we moved on.

"It's a surprise, but it won't happen until AFTER your nap, when Momma gets home."

"Oh," he said. And I went into the kitchen to rinse his lunch dish.

When I returned, he was looking for his blanket. "I need to take a nap now," he informed me. And so, at HIS prompting, we got his things around and tucked him in for a nap, thirty minutes earlier than normal. Now I just have to see if he'll take an actual nap or do one of his "quiet times" where he lies in bed for about thirty minutes then starts calling me up with declarations of "I sleeped!" I tried to emphasize that the condition of the treat shortly following the nap was that the nap needed to be a REAL nap, but I'm pretty sure all he was thinking about was candy and toys, so we'll just have to see how it all plays out.

And I'm going to have to start coming up with suitable bribes to get him to volunteer for naps more often, I think.