Just a moment ago, after my son ate his popsicle in all of about 4 seconds, he came running to me, hand pressed to his forehead, decidedly in discomfort, and said, "moooooooom, I have a brain!" Well, one would hope so, kid. I corrected him, "you have a brain freeze, not just a brain. And if you would use said brain, and take more than a nanosecond to eat that popsicle, you could avoid the whole frozen cranium thing all together." "Oh."
Jane, who has finally decided that peek-a-boo is played by covering your EYES and not your EARS has, if possible, made the whole thing even cuter by saying "pee-pee-byoo!" (I know all of you are saying that out loud right now, just to really hear what it sounds like, and you are all thinking, "awwwww, that IS the cutest thing ever!")
Sam needs privacy. He has to go to the bathroom, and he has to make a point to holler to whichever parent is in closest proximity, "mom! I need privacy!", like I am trying to break down the bathroom door. I need to remind him that the fact that he wants me to come and wipe his butt kind of cancels out the whole privacy thing…
Jane had her toenails painted harlot-pink last weekend by her Godmother…I am torn between the utter cuteness of it and horror that it seems that I do, indeed, have a daughter. Who will wear nail polish. And have pocketbooks, and earrings, and boyfriends. Oh, help me. Or more aptly, help that poor boy who comes to pick up Jane and meets her father at the door. Polishing a shotgun.
I know you’re still saying pee-pee-byoo, too, don’t deny it.