Structurally Unsound

I frequently wonder what Graham will be when he grows up.  He's such a happy and easing going fellow, and with his tender-heartedness, he could have a really successful future working with people.  I don't wonder so much about Cael's future, because I feel like it's already locked up; he will be a train 'ductor.  Or a gym teacher.  Either way, he's likely to end his day very tired and excessively smelly, which won't be much of a departure from his current daily grind.  I guess the past does dictate the future.

But there is one thing I don't see in their futures-- at least not yet, and that is a career in architecture.  Don't take the above statement as a criticism of my sons' intelligence, as they are clearly exceptional in more ways than one (and in more ways than I would sometimes prefer).  It's just that their building skills really leave something to be desired.

When it comes to blocks, their downfall is not for a lack of effort, but rather a clumsy execution.  What was supposed to be a house winds up looking more like a disorganized mass burial after a LEGO genocide.  Heartbreaking, really.  Other mediums are just as problematic.  The boys love Play-Doh, and we pull it out at least once a week.  But, like clockwork, after less than 10 minutes of play time, they turn on me.

"Mommy, make a train!"

"Doo-doo!"  (Choo-choo in Grahamese)

"Mommy, make a car!"

What was intended to be craft/creative play time for my kids becomes "Sculpting 101" by Dr. Mommy.  (I don't mind, really.  I'm already teaching Anatomy 101, Intro to Nursing, Conflict Management, Basics of Social Interaction and Advanced Locomotive Mechanics.  I've got some serious skills.)  So I roll out the dough and get crafting.  Last night it was a canoe (complete with oars and a fish) as well as a more detailed train engine.

Once those are done, the boys know that they have to build something for me, otherwise I am simply a woman in her late-twenties that makes her children watch her play with their toys.  Kinda tacky.  Graham quickly got to work crafting a "ball" which you would think, considering that the wad of Play-Doh he had was round to begin with, would be a simple task.  Not so.  Little tiny bits of blue and yellow dog-enticing dough were everywhere, and when his masterpiece was completed, he'd created the most malformed ball in creation.  Picasso would have been proud.

Cael, after some time -CHOO- pushing his train engine around the table and angrily reattaching the wheels that kept detaching, started in on a "phone".  His phone looked more like a ball than Graham's ball, which looked less like a ball and more like a phone.  At least Graham is young enough that he is not offended when I venture a guess as to what he has made and get it wrong.  Cael is old enough to be embarrassed by his unidentifiable artwork.

"Hmm... is it a horse?"

"No!!  It doesn't look like a horse, Mommy.  Nope."

"Okay, is it a motorcycle?"

"No way!  Look at it!  It's a phone, Mommy.  Can you see it?  It's a phone."

"Oh, a phone!  I'm sorry, I missed that.  But I like it a lot.  What kind of phone is that?  A cell phone?"

"No, Mommy.  It's an iPhone."

I stand corrected.

So, while they may not be budding Frank Lloyd Wrights, they will have a lot of choices over the years.  Whether they choose to be teachers or doctors or 'ductors, I know that they will both be successful in all they do.  That is, if they can pass my "Construction Skills for Life" course.  I'm pretty tough.

Glutton For Punishment

My kids keep my hands full every day.  For that matter, my kids keep my hands full and my hair gray and my head spinning... every day.  But what some of you may not know is that, in addition to my own kids, I watch other children during the day as well.

Cael in August 2008

It was a simpler time.  The year was 2008, and Cael was just a nine month-old when I agreed to watch a friend's baby a few days a week as a way to make some money while I was at home.  Over the years they've grown up as good friends/accomplices/jailmates and it all worked well, even though two kids meant twice the work.  A couple of years later, we both added to our families and doubled the diapers and runny noses.  As my own family grew in size and in need (aka Cael wearing through a pair of jeans each week) we needed more, so I took on another neighbor boy on my remaining free days.  There was a point at which I considered overlapping them, but I felt that on a daily basis it wouldn't be a safe choice.  I know how much work my two kids can be on their own, and the thought of dividing my attention five ways was daunting to say the least.

And then came yesterday.  Yesterday was not a normal Tuesday.  Yesterday I watched all FIVE children by myself.  (Before I begin this diatribe, let me say that mothers who have that many children [or more] deserve a medal, a stiff drink or a detailed psychological analysis.)  I agreed to watch them all because my friend was in a bind, and I figured "what's one day?".  Famous last words. 

It's not even that it went badly.  It didn't.  I woke up, whispered "I can do this" to myself repeatedly (and would continue throughout the day) and we got through it just fine.  But now that it's over, I am able to look back and clearly understand the key to watching multiple children:

1.  Don't drink anything all day.  If you allow yourself any water, you WILL have to pee.  And if you leave for one moment to pee, your almost two-year-old will decided to launch himself off of the stairs and forget the beanbag that he needs to soften his landing.  (Side note: this is Graham's new favorite pastime.  It is a full-time job to monitor his dare-devil activities to make sure he's only jumping from the bottom step and not from the third.... or fourth...)



2.  No mashed potatoes.  Potatoes are a good, usually kid-friendly addition to any lunch, but when you have more children than arms, you need to choose foods that are not wet, soft and/or "launchable".  Think foods that you can pick up with your fingers.  Mashed potatoes inside one's ear are much less appetizing than on one's plate.  (The same rule applies for applesauce and yogurt.)

3.  Hearing is overrated.  Good hearing is merely a nuisance in this scenario, as it requires you to listen to every whine, sneeze, cry, tantrum, belch and train whistle at full volume.  Buckling them all into chairs at lunch time simply funnels this noise into one condensed stream that swims through the air and assaults your eardrums. 

4.  Conditions will stink.  I had planned plenty of outdoor time and activities to help the hours pass and to combat boredom, but yesterday was one of the only days in two weeks that it rained (and WOW, did it rain) and was the last day it will rain for several more.  I could have predicted it.  Additionally, I had a couple of different DVD options to quiet them down and settle in for some Pixar therapy, but my DVD player is magically broken, and I fear that little fingers have crammed multiple discs into the slot intended for just one.  Great.

5.  Just play along.  The kids always want me to play with them, and I try to do this as much as my brain will allow.  Yesterday I learned that our house was "flying through the air like an airplane!" and that the boys were "going to America!".  (For those of you that don't know me very well, I also learned that I am "a nice Mommy" but I have really "messy hair" and I make "yucky carrots".)  There does come a point at which I reach my threshold and need an adult conversation.  That is the point at which I call someone in my family and talk about, well, kids and trains and diapers.  And speaking of diapers... 

6.  There will be poop.  I was so hopeful that post-potty training (which I can thankfully and fearfully say is 100% COMPLETE for Cael) my daily exposure to excrement would decrease.  Not so.  The experts don't tell you about the months of bottom-wiping that follow a child's ability to use the potty.  Just because they can "go" does not mean they can clean themselves.  Just great.  Yesterday I wiped bottoms 13 times-- and of those 13 times, seven were for good ol' number two.

I slept like a rock last night, all the while dreaming about a 10 month-old, a 22-month old, a 2 year-old, a 3 year-old and an almost 4 year-old.  I'm a little hazy today, but one thing is certain.  I have a lot of respect for Michelle Duggar.  Someone should give that woman a medal, a stiff drink or a detailed psychological analysis.

Life's A Parade

Last Saturday, after taking Graham out back and hosing him off, we got dressed and headed up town to watch the parade.  Despite his digestive pyrotechnics the night before, he was in good spirits and seemed very excited about the prospect of watching a parade.

What is it about kids and parades, anyway?  I always thought it had to do with the candy being throw haphazardly out of car windows at innocent children loitering in the street, but in the case of my boys this is not the case.  As their mother, however, I do see the allure.  When Cael hears "parade", he thinks of only one thing: a train.

Okay, so it's not a really obvious connection, and I agree that the only real commonality is that both a train and a parade travel in a line.  For Cael and Graham, that seems to be enough.  Ever since our train adventure, Cael likes to line up not only his toys but anything he can get his hands on.

"Look, Mommy!  I made a train!"

"I see that Cael.  Are those your shoes in a row?"

"Yeah, it's a shoe train.  Come look at my other trains."

"Wow, you've lined up all of the tissues from the Kleenex box.  That's just great."

"Yeah, it's an AH-CHOO choo train!"  

(That's actually a pretty good one.  Yesterday he told me a knock-knock joke that went like this:  "Knock-knock!  Who's there?  A bat.  A bat, who?  A stinky, poopy, yucky baseball bat with dirt and cat hair!"  When I heard the train joke I was about ready to call Penguins and book him for open-mic night.)

With that understanding, I wasn't surprised at their strong desire to see the ultimate train-- cars, firetrucks, animals and people ALL going down the street in one unified, indivisible train.  We arrived about 20 minutes before the parade was to start in order to secure our really bad spot in direct sunlight.  Neither of the boys seemed to mind the heat once the very first sirens started blaring and the police car signified the beginning of the parade.  And then there was a firetruck, and then an ambulance.  And then another firetruck and another ambulance.  One more firetruck, followed by the fire chief.  Three more firetrucks, another ambulance and a partridge in a pear tree.  I turned back to Joel, who had retreated several yards away to a tiny foot-wide patch of shade.

"There seem to be a lot of emergency vehicles in this parade."  Mistake.

"Why are there lots of 'mergencies, Mommy?"

"Not emergencies, Cael.  Just cars and trucks that go to emergencies to help people."

"But where is the 'mergency?"

"There is no emergency.  They are just here for the parade."

"But if they go to 'mergencies, the 'mergency must be here!"

"No emergency, Cael.  Not today.  There aren't emergencies on parade days."  Ever have to blatantly lie to your kid so they'll stop asking you questions and eat candy they find on the street?  

"Oh, okay."

Once he got into the routine of filling his bucket with his loot, (and after only two near misses with an antique tractor) Cael was invested.  He would have the best bucket with the best candy-- only he was too tentative to grab the candy thrown in his direction and two elementary-aged girls on a sugar binge beat him to almost every piece.  Just as well... before it was over we would wind up with 47 suckers, and I won't let him eat those just yet.  He's perfectly capable, but I'm no fool, and I like my carpeting just the way it is.

Graham also enjoyed the parade, and made the most of his time by causing onlookers to swoon and throw candy at him.  He does seem to have that effect on people in most situations, minus the enthusiastic candy throwing.  His practically-clear blonde hair and blue eyes just scream all-american, and to see him waving a miniature flag on the sidelines of a summer parade was more than most little old ladies could handle.  As the parade was coming to a close, I was worried that the universe would implode from the intensity of his cuteness.  Thankfully, though, Daddy was there to pull his shirt up like the dancing "Jones County Fair" girls and take his cuteness to a creepy level.

Good thing he was there.  I heard that all of the emergency vehicles were unavailable due to a parade.

Caelism of the Day

Yesterday, as we were snuggling on the couch after Cael's all-too-short nap, we were enjoying a little trail mix snack and some "Thomas the Train".  The kid really knows how to kick back.  I dropped a dried cranberry and without thinking, Cael drove right down my shirt to catch it.  I pulled him back and we had a brief talk about how girls have a "private place" on their chests, and a reminder chat about not invading other people's privacy.

I think I caused more harm than good, because it was as though he'd never noticed that I wasn't flat-chested like him.

"Mommy!  What is that?!"  (Pointing to my cleavage down in my shirt)  "It looks like you have a second bottom!"


Great.  Not only does my chest look like a rear end, but now I have to worry about him offending all genders.  At least he's an equal-opportunity offender.  Off to the plastic surgeon.

Let's Go to the Movies!

In July of 2010, Cael saw his first movie.  At that time, he was just starting to exhibit the patience necessary to watch an entire movie, so we decided to chance it and take him to Toy Story 3.  He loved it-- sitting quietly and munching on his popcorn, he absorbed the movie and broke his focus only briefly to ask about the characters or attempt to pick a piece of popcorn off of the floor. 

Fast forward to July 8th, 2011.  Cael is another year older, another year more mature.  Yeah, right!  We had been anticipating the release of Cars 2, the sequel to another of his favorite movies, and the opportunity to take him to his second movie.  He was excited and loves visiting the Bijou, a small theater in town that miraculously manages to show first-run movies and charges surprisingly little for concessions.  My kind of place.

After some debate, we decided to bring Graham along.  Not only was his admission free due to his young age, but at home he is even more focused during "Mah Mow" (Mickey Mouse) than Cael on his best day.  The odds are good that this will go well.  And we all know that when I anticipate a great experience, it always works out.  Right?

We arrived at the theater and after purchasing our tickets, chose our snacks.  We brought our refillable bucket for popcorn which cut our costs in half, so even though we were staring wide-eyed at a bathtub full of popcorn, we knew it was a good deal.  A big diet Pepsi, a water for the boys and a battle over M&Ms later, we were ready to see the show.  The popcorn was dripping with that clear, unidentifiable movie theater butter-- the kind that, in any other context would probably warrant a phone call to the Health Department, but on fluffy, popped popcorn is absolute perfection.  We dug in and had half of it gone before the previews were even over.  Relegated to the empty seat next to me, the popcorn would have to wait until the boys got restless.

About three minutes into Cars 2, I knew we had a problem.  Graham was watching intently on Daddy's lap, but Cael had not been hooked.  Children need to be "hooked" into a movie just like an adult with a novel; if it fails to capture his interest within the first minute, he will NOT focus and follow the storyline.  I didn't even blame him, to tell you the truth.  The only recognizable connection to the original Cars was "Mater", the buck-toothed tow truck and a surprisingly small number of scenes with "Lightning McQueen", who was the main character.  Other than their appearance on the screen, everything was different.  The story was dark and much too heavy for young children to appreciate or even follow.  There were spies, there were special agents, and there was a very wiggly 3 year-old in the 9th row struggling to make it through the first 10 minutes.

So what do you do with a wiggly kid?  Feed him.  Not the choice I'd make at home or in any other situation, really, but in a dark room it was the only real option.  Graham was getting squirmier, too, and was handed back and forth between Mommy and Daddy in an effort to keep him happy and quiet.  Pass the popcorn bucket to Graham, please!  It was no real surprise when, after less than an hour, the tub was empty and the boys were both talking, whining, wanting to play with my phone, taking off their shoes, and in general, doing everything one is NOT supposed to do during a night at the movies.

When Joel chose that exact moment to walk out, I was plotting my next move.  Do I put syrup in his hair while he's sleeping?  Should I saran-wrap the toilet?  If he had chosen to take a bathroom break, I secretly hoped there would be no toilet paper.  What, exactly, is a sufficient punishment for leaving me with these boys when they are at the peak of restlessness?  When he returned a few minutes later with the much-debated M&Ms, I was both relieved and concerned.  We had planned in advance that, if Graham was not able to make it through the movie, one of us would load him up in the stroller and walk home, leaving the other with the van to get home with Cael.  I had reached that threshold and mentioned to Joel several times that I was about to take Graham out.  A movie with an adult storyline acted out by computer animated characters does NOT a children's movie make.

The M&Ms did buy us some time.  Graham would moan for another as soon as one had left his mouth and while I tried my best to make him pace himself, we'd eaten through the pack in about 5 minutes.  I tried to stifle his cries as he watched me fold up the empty brown paper bag that once contained his favorite treat, but he was still noisy enough to elicit looks from the people around us.  This wasn't going well.  Joel handed over the remainder of his M&M bag and we demolished those as well.  I had a few.  You know, just to make sure they were edible.  What kind of mother would I be if I didn't check my son's food for health purposes?

I quickly learned that I was the kind of mother that forgot to bring the diaper bag in the theater, and Graham was the kind of kid that needs to poop after eating a trough of popcorn and the better part of two bags of candy.  I hope no one around us could hear the poop grunts my son was voicing.  In fact, he seemed to be having some trouble with this one-- more than usual.  I knew he was getting it out, because of the orangey-green cloud that was wafting away from my son and mixing with the other scents of popcorn and musty carpet in the theater.  This wasn't good.

I tried to give him a drink of water, perhaps to settle him down, but seconds later I could feel that he had spit the water out all over my shirt and chest.  He does this from time to time; holding water in his mouth and spitting it out at some later occasion like a plaza fountain.  But this felt different.  Warm, chocolate covered bits of semi-digested popcorn and M&M candy shells were all over my shirt, down through my cleavage and were pooling in my bra.

"Joel...psst... JOEL!  Graham just threw up ALL OVER ME!"

He stared, gaping, for a moment and then decided that laughing at me was the best course of action.  I had to laugh too.  Not at my sweet boy's misfortune, but at the utter disaster that had arisen from the ashes of what was to be Graham's "FIRST MOVIE EVER".  I felt gross, sticky, smelly and completely disinterested in this animated spy movie that was playing before us.

So we left.

And I don't regret it one bit.  That was the first movie I'd ever left without finishing, and I do think that vomit in one's undergarments is an acceptable reason for abandoning a film.  Graham was fine, and as we both suspected wasn't really sick but had just consumed way too much grease and chocolate.  After a thorough scrub-down and tooth brushing, he was out cold in bed and I was able to scrub off not only the throw-up, but the memory of yet another outing gone terribly wrong.

I haven't decided yet whether this will go down in the record books baby books as Graham's first movie.  I didn't get the customary photo in front of the Cars 2 sign, but rather this photo of us wearing his dinner.  Normally the book would also include the ticket stub from his first show and a little blurb about the day.  I can see it now...

"We watched a lousy movie and you wouldn't sit still.  I fed you too much junk food and you puked all over me.  What fun!" 

Oh well.  Being the second kid, he's lucky he has a baby book at all.

Festibul

Summertime is for being outside.  And summertime in July-- in Mt. Vernon specifically-- is a special time.  Cael calls it "festibul", but the rest of Mt. Vernon calls it Heritage Days.  All of the Iowa towns have a summertime "festibul" and ours, while a little bigger than most, is pretty much the same as the rest.  Scary carnival rides and even scarier ride operators, foods balanced on a stick that are only intended to be eaten with a fork and knife, and children, children, children. 

Oddly enough, the two most beautiful children in attendance at last night's Heritage Days kick-off were my own.  Funny how that works, huh?  In case you didn't see us, we were the four sweatiest people there last night, having arrived a little bit too early for the amount of activities available and therefore subjecting ourselves to the unforgiving heat.  Thankfully there were no bugs.  My 47 bite marks haven't totally healed yet.  This festival, or this particular night of the festival, is one of my favorite summertime things to do.  Letting my kids run loose on the manicured lawn of the golf course and laying on a blanket watching the kick-off fireworks just oozes July.  For Cael, his focus was clear.  Forget the fireworks, forget the glow sticks and lightening bugs-- there was a train.

"Cael, do you need some water?"

"Mommy, there's a TRAIN!"

"Are you hot, Cael?"

"Can I ride the train?"

"Cael!  I have a treat for you!"

"Is the treat a train?"

Lucky for him (but unlucky for us) the rules of the night had changed, and any person that wanted to ride the train or any of the other inflatable activities had to purchase an "unlimited ride" band for $10.00.  In previous years, tickets could be purchased individually so that kids could ride just once, and parents could get that one extra beer.  Whether the change was made in the best interest of boozing parents everywhere, or just to make more money, (it couldn't be!) for us it meant that Cael was going to ride that train as many times as he could tolerate.  We were getting our money's worth!

Last night, our money's worth only meant three trips around the golf course.  I stood in the train line with my wiggly kid for what seemed like five hours waiting for that little train, during which time Cael was able to analyze the locomotive and determine that it was, in fact, NOT a real train.  Once he'd made that realization, the train had lost some of the allure.  This is one of the downsides of his steam engine adventure.  He got a taste of the real thing, and now he will accept no substitutes.  Even still, I loaded him on the car twice alone as I hadn't spent $10 on a band for myself.  He sat, stoic, gazing out the window as if he were leaving home for the city in some dramatic 1920's black and white movie.  The only difference being, however, that this is 2011, and my life is a lot less "drama" and a lot more "raunchy comedy".

Graham loathes being confined, so any scenario that allows him to run freely brings out a big smile on his sweet, drool-covered face.  Testing boundaries, he would run as far as I was comfortable allowing (plus a few extra steps) and then toddle back just out of reach.  He'd giggle, fall, probably pee a little bit, and repeat the process.  There were some older boys wrestling around in the grass in front of us and I think he believed he was a part of the action.  I couldn't break the news to him that he was too little to play.  He'll figure that out on his own in a very short time, since he will be two in only a couple of months.  (I'm plugging my ears and singing "lalalala" in an effort to ignore that inevitable truth.  I'm happy with my denial.)  I was afraid he'd fear the fireworks coming at the end of the evening, but Graham never ceases to surprise me, and once snuggled up on my lap, he would "ooh" and "ahh" at each explosion.  I hope he keeps that enthusiasm.  He can quit the perpetual peeing, though.  I'd be okay with that.

 In contrast, Cael didn't tolerate the fireworks as well as he usually might.  It could be that we were closer and the noise was therefore louder, or perhaps it was because he was already up an hour past his bedtime.  Either way, he whined and complained through every burst of color in the sky.  The display in a small town like ours is stretched out to fill time, too, so each individual explosion gets its own launch and pause afterward for the onlookers to discuss.

"Oh, I liked that one."

"No, I only like the sparkly ones."

"Did you see that?  That one looked like a smiley face!"

Joel isn't really interested in the actual fireworks, but rather the opportunity to assign fake names to each effect. 

"That there is called a Tijuana Time Bomb!", or "Did you see that?  That was one nice Benjamin Franklin!"  He left nothing out, even addressing the various noises that accompany each explosion.  "That squeaky one is called "Whistling Dixie." 

My apologies if you sat anywhere around us.  I feel as though I should provide a refund for the $10.00 armband if your night was tainted by my husband's inability to let a quiet moment pass, but I may have a lifetime of not-so-quiet moments coming my way, so I had better save my pennies.

When the finale was complete, we loaded up our gear and our two exhausted boys and strapped them into the car.  We slowly but surely worked our way out of the parking spot we'd been assigned, and after letting a couple of cars through that were unable to get out, we made it to the funnel point where all exiting cars intersected.  Following traditional traffic rules and common courtesy, most vehicles were alternating to allow everyone an opportunity to leave the parking lot.  But not "white van lady".  The young woman in the Ford Windstar next to us (oh, I SO hope you're reading!) was not going to let us in.  No sir, she waits for no one.  We engaged in a battle of inching toward the SUV in front of us before we realized that she would not relent.

Have you ever noticed, whenever there is an altercation of vehicles on the road, how the person at fault avoids making eye contact?  The person being faulted, however, stares and points as if they were searching for Waldo.  I wish Waldo had been in the car next to us.  He, with his striped shirt and goofy wave, would likely have let us in so we didn't have to wait for another two cars to pass before joining the queue of cars trying to merge onto the highway.  "White van lady" continued her reign of terror on the cars at the intersection of 30 and 1, where she refused to wait her turn and inched, jerking her van, through a gap in the traffic.  I bet she avoided eye contact with those people too.

Aside from the 45 minutes that it took us to drive the mile to our home with our droopy-eyed boys, it was a fun night.  I hope their little brains are able to recall these hot, firefly-lit nights in the grass when it is snowy and cold in January.  If not, we always have our pictures and our memories of the Tijuana Time Bomb.

A New Era of "Isms"

Today marks a new era.  I am publishing my very first "Grahamism", and while my kids' "isms" are often best shared sans narrative, I thought this special occasion deserved a moment in the spotlight.

Cael is the alpha dog in our house, without question.  Graham gets bulldozed, but he almost doesn't seem to mind.  While Cael is action, dirt and noise, Graham is kisses and snuggles.  He does it with a twinkle in his eye, however, and the unspoken promise that he can still make life a challenge if he feels I've gotten too soft. 

The child-rearing experts always say that children will often excel in one area, especially if they seem to be a little sluggish in the others.  Graham has hit all of his milestones at the appropriate times, but his speech, while completely within a normal range, is a little slower than Cael's was at this age.  To be honest, I don't believe that he doesn't know how to say things yet, rather it seems like he isn't all that concerned with talking.  His personality is so thoughtful and introspective; it wouldn't surprise me if he's communicating telepathically with Cael or even with the dog.  Perhaps Graham is the evil mastermind behind all of the antics in our home. 

Lately, however, more words are coming out.  He mastered "Momma", "Dada" and "Papa" quite some time ago, and moved on to other important people or things in his life.  But is it common for a 22 month-old to shout exclamations like, "No way!"?  I choose to view it as a glimmer of his future brilliance.  But the best part of this most recent conquest is that he's yet to understand the appropriate context for these phrases, and I am left to decipher why my son is saying "WOW" when I ask if he has a poopy diaper.

"It's time for bed, Graham.  Let's say a prayer and have our snuggle."

"Oh, noooo!"

"You don't want to snuggle?"

"Oh, man!"

"So you DO want to snuggle?"

"No way."

"Okay, goodnight then."  (He didn't like that.  I wasn't really planning to leave him without our nightly love-fest, but he cried anyway.  Correction: he didn't just cry.  He cried like his heart was broken and I'd stomped on it.)

"Maaaamaaamaaamaa!"

"I'm right here, baby.  Do you want your snuggle now?"

"Huh."  (That means yes.)

Once in proper snuggle-stance, which is all cuddled up on the spare bed in his room, Barker in hand, we had another chance to chat.

"Did you have a good day?"

"Whoa!"

"I guess so.  What did you do today?"

"Apple."

"Yes, you ate an apple.  What else did you eat?"

"Mull."  (Milk)

"That's right!  Where do you put the milk?  In your mouth?"

"Nose!"

"No, silly, you don't put milk in your nose.  It goes in your mouth."

"Eye!"

"You're a goofball.  Where are your eyes?"  (He pointed them out correctly, and very gently in typical Graham fashion.)

"Oh noooo!"

"You don't want to play that game, huh?  It's time for bed anyway.  You have a good sleep and I will snuggle you some more tomorrow."  (This is the easiest kid to put to bed-- ever.  Lay him down; walk away.  He does the work.  Three cheers for low-maintenance children!)  "What should we do tomorrow, anyway?"

"Poo."  

"I'm sure you'll take care of that too.  I love you, Bubba!"

"Poo-poo!"

I'm going to take that as his way of expressing his undying love for me.  And I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  Or from the other apples.  Wish me luck, friends.