Exhaustion Approaching

Here on Day Two of our L-O-N-G week (moving countdown: minus 70 hours), Miles and I are wasting valuable afternoon time looking at pictures instead of packing. When I found this one and Miles said, "It's me with my favorite wet Silkie! I LOVE it!" ...well, it just had to be posted. I imagine Jer and I will look much like this (only less cute and Silkie free) by Saturday night. Wish us a smooth move!  

Mouthes of Babes

Another little funny, just uttered as I use a cook's tool, in the kitchen, in the service of our family's evening meal. (But I know what Miles means. And he's right about which parent has the real culinary talent...)

Mom: "What did you do at school today?"
Son: "Played with kids."
Mom: "Which kids?"
Son: "Bronwyn. I played with Bronwyn. Sometimes we play house, and sometimes we play cook."
Mom: "You do what?"
Son: "We pretend like we are cooks... with food. You know, cooks -- like Daddy!"

Live & Let Die

So the Whirling Dervish is spinning about the den, eating pretzels and jumping up and down between karate moves. He says he is being a vacuum cleaner. (That delivers punches and shin kicks? Quentin Tarrantino's vacuum cleaner, maybe...)

But I'm already off track. I mean to be documenting a 3-year-old's growing understanding of BIG TOPICS.

We were packing the kitchen last week, using old newspapers to wrap things. Miles saw a picture of the pope's massive funeral and asked me what it was. I tried to fudge a little because I didn't want to get into the conversation of death; I told him it was a kind of parade and kept packing. But he just kept asking questions! He wore me down, man! He wore me down, and I cracked under the pressure.

"That was a man who died, baby. A good man, who was kind of a preacher, and who died. Lots of people are in this picture because they liked this man who died. They were sad to see him go. So they came to say goodbye. This is his funeral."

OK, everything on the table now. I was hoping for information overload, which often sends Miles back to his toy trucks and nonsensical conversations with the Fisher Price Little People. But, instead.... "Oh," says Miles. "Like the dinosaurs."

(Who are dead, he meant.) "Yes, I guess so. Like the dinosaurs"

"Yeah" says Miles, pointing to the pope body in state, "This guy's extinct, Mom. He's ex-TINCT!"

Like the dinosaurs. :)

*


On a related note, today in the car, Miles retold me the Tale of Squirrel Woe that he gathered through Papa Jim this weekend and first told me last night. It got better in its second telling -- more vivid detail -- and it goes almost like this (I've decided to quote even though I may be a little off here and there):
"And, and, last night, when I was with Papa Jim, and the school was out on our walk, we saw a flat squirrel. He bumped into a car. Yeah, he was in the road and a car bumped him and he fell right on the concrete and all his fur fell out on the concrete. And he couldn't get up because he was stuck there, on the concrete. He was not paying pu-ttention, Mom. No, he was not...."

(Yes, it's a cautionary tale, much like Aesop's fables.)

So, our little guy is already processing the concepts of death and dying. Thus far, he seems completely unfazed. But, then again, he's still surprised when one of his punches impacts a parent's face and causes an outcry. He's not much into the reality of pain and suffering; he just hasn't had any yet. (Sigh.) I'm grateful he's made it this far in life unscathed... but he's got a lot to learn, doesn't he?

Poor, sweet little fella.

Five Future Home Shots

I have some time on my hands, so I thought I'd try this photo publishing thing again.
(I still stink at it, BTW.)

DISCLAIMER: There's NOTHING to see here unless you are a relative or an especially indulgent friend. No one else cares about "before" shots of our soon-to-be home... Go ahead and look, but don't say I didn't warn ya!



red-rum, red-rum (not actually scary in person; just the front hallway, paneling below painted grasscloth) 

the breakfast nook 

this mirror speaks. it says, "hello, las vegas!" 

future fireman room 

living room #1 

Clean-Up in Aisle Mine

"Your poop looks like frosting!"

This is an actual quote, folks. To save some shred of anonymity for all involved, I can offer few further details. But it's factual. The words issued forth from Miles' lips, at a time when both parents were home to hear/ appreciate/ recoil in horror.

...With these kinds of conversations so uniquely entwined in my everyday life, is it any wonder I am a near-raving lunatic with fading social skills and not very cute outfits?

I am truly losing my mind as we continue potty training. Monday, I said OUT LOUD to my beloved child, "I tell you the truth. I will walk out of this house and leave you if you don't stop doing this." ("This" being our daily routine of accidents Miles doesn't notice or acknowledge.)

I have touched so much fecal matter in the last month -- more than any parent of any average newborn, I would confidently wager. (Infants wear diapers. Diapers are disposable. And diapers are designed to contain poop. Toddlers wear SuperHero underwear. Super Hero underwear are both prized and overpriced and not, as a rule, thrown away. Also, they don't contain sh*&! Sorry. So rarely does as expletive fit into a sentence literally, that I had to use it.)

I really am near the precipice. I've been just rational enough to think through what I'll do when I go over, and those of you with a soft spot for the little redhead will be pleased to hear I'm not going to take Miles with me. (The very idea is nonesense! Not only do I not want to harm him, I don't want to smell him on my way down!)

Really, our house is beginning to reek. And sometimes the smell is the best proof of what has gone awry. I recently walked into our kitchen and thought -- no lie! -- "there's so much water on the floor! A dishwasher supply pipe must have burst." I bent closer. Nope, but Mommie's Little Kitchen Helper sure sprang a leak!

I'd wised up a bit by the time I found a slick spot in the bathroom this week. "Is that pee?!" I asked/ shrieked. "Uh, yeah. I missed," shruged the boy. I think that was the episode during which I noticed a rash on my knuckles, a brand new outbreak of dish-pan hand no doubt caused by all the scalding hot washings I undergo daily.

In a nice bit of serendipitous timing, I'm headed to the dermatologist tomorrow, where I can address my flaky, irritable skin. Had I the time, I would also head to the liquor store so I could address my flaky, irritable mind.

Once this is over -- assuming this, too, shall pass -- and I am asked for advice on potty training, I'm not sure I can ever muster a (printable) reply. I'm thinking of anything, anything I can say that will not cause another woman to shudder with revulsion or fear.

Lysol. Clorox. The brand names are your best friends. Those, and a gross of latex gloves.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

Miles is puttering around, hammering random objects and singing "Bob the Builder" to himself. It's somehow very sweet.

A low rumbling on the street interrupts him. I hear a rush of small feet on the way to the window. (Is he a single child or a fleet of them? Hard to tell without a visual.)

"BYE, TRASHMAN! See ya' next time! Thanks for coming!"

Ah, these moments of domestic bliss. They're the "ob-la-di's" that lift me above the everyday blahs.

Even now I'm humming as I type: "Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace...."

Well, Of Course He Did... The Windows Were Locked

I think scientists will soon isolate a smart-aleck gene. I believe it's out there, and I'm pretty sure it runs dominant among males in my family.

The other day, Miles came running into the den with this excited cry: "Mom! Mom! I found a spider! In my room! Come look at him!"

I go in and find, sure enough, a rather healthy eight-legged specimen under the play table. All play had been suspended for the find; the sitting stools were knocked out of the way and a complete backpack of gear was disemboweled on the carpet, as M. had clearly been looking for bug-wrangling gear. He chose his binoculars (around the neck), his magnifying glass (in one hand) and most frigteningly, his giant tweezers.

As my child was playing Nearsighted Entomologist, it occured to me that we hadn't had a spider of this size in the house in a while. And it wasn't a rainy day, which often drives bugs indoors. I said out loud, "I wonder how that spider got in here?" And immediately, Miles wheeled around, binoculars still trained and tweezers held aloft. Without missing a beat, he said,

"Uh, well, I'm pretty sure he came through the door, Mom."

A Visual Treat!

We have found our new house! With few worries but overflowing miracles ("a good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over"), we sold a house in 1 day and then found another to call home.
...And this is it! Witness the pleasant but unassuming facade that will soon hold two parents and a Boy Wonder.

(Geez! That was WAY more time-consuming to post than it should have been. I envisioned a mini photo gallery of home shots, but seriously, it's getting late and I can NOT be bothered to stay up and gather steam as I try to work out why my Mozilla window doesn't function the way Internet Explorer does. More photos later, perhaps, when armed with a beer and a bigger reserve of patience...)


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