Rainbows

We started back to school this week.  Our house is a flutter with fresh notebooks, pencil shavings, and Handwriting Without Tears'® Mat Men™.  Tuesday, the big boys created their own Mat Men™ using the wooden pieces and mats that they will typically use to build the letters they're learning to write.  This exercise soon translated into drawing their own versions of Mat Men™ using crayons and paper.

The boys began giggling.  "Mom, my Mat Man™ is peeing a rainbow!"

Sure enough, Nathan had drawn a picture of a Mat Man™ taking a rainbow whiz.  I may have briefly imagined my delinquent children being paraded through the neighborhood as other, more sound mothers shook their heads and breathed sighs of relief, while ushering their children onto the school bus and away from my homeschooled flock.  Then, I realized that my kindergartner had drawn his stream of colors in the correct order of the color spectrum.  I'm calling it a win.

Life is like this with a bundle of boys and one outnumbered little girl.  It's not mornings of French-braiding each others' hair while singing songs about world peace.  It's much more colorful.  It's peeing rainbows. 

It's also moments like these:

(8/2/14)

Jason had returned from a business trip.  He told Jack that he had missed him and asked Nathan to tell Jack what "missed" meant. 

Nate: It's the water that comes out of the hose.

(8/3/14)

Jason was eating peaches at lunch and talking about how much he would like a peach tree if we had a bigger yard.  The kids began talking about wanting trees to climb. 

Audrey: You know I'm a tree girl.
Nathan: I'm a tree boy.
Jack: I'm a ground boy.

(8/8/14)

The boys woke up.  I heard them shuffle to the bathroom. 

Jack: I don't want to pee at the same time.
Nate: Then, I'm peeing first.
Jack: (muffled whining)
Nate: Fine, you pee first.
Jack: Don't pee on top of mine!  I DON'T WANT YOU TO PEE ON TOP OF MINE!

(8/8/14)

In the kitchen.

Nathan: That's my cup.  I had it the other day.
Jack: I have it this day.

(8/26/14)

At dinner, Jason turned to ask if I wanted to watch a television show we'd been catching up on. 

Jason: "What About a Boy" tonight?
Audrey (terrified): You're having another boy tonight!?

(8/27/14)

Nathan was eating a bagel under a blanket in an attempt to hide it from his little brother.  Apparently, the blanket looked like a barn to Jack.

Jack: Nate, we can't eat in a barn.  That's the rules.
Nate: We can if we own the barn.

(10/12/14)

We were traveling in the car and Jason and I both said, "Just Jack!" mid-conversation (me with jazz hands à la Sean Hayes). 

Jack: I'm not a song.  I'm a person. 

(10/15/14)

During Audrey's first drama class, the teacher asked, "What's drama?"

Audrey answered, "When someone throws a fit."

(10/26/14)

Me to Jack: Guess what?
Jack: What?
Me: I love you.
Jack: Guess what?
Me: What?
Jack: I love you. (Pause.) Guess what else?
Me: What?
Jack: I'm hungry.

(11/18/14)

Jack saw a diaper box with a picture of a baby on the front.  "Is that our baby," he asked. 

"That's not our baby, but it's a baby," I said.

"His name starts with 'A'?"

(11/25/14)

Audrey: Did you know Laura Ingalls liked wolves better than cattle?
Me: I didn't know that. 
Audrey:  I guess she really didn't like cattle. 

(11/28/14)

Audrey to Nathan: You don't have to be so bossy like that.  You're not Dad.

(11/30/14)

Jack was telling me a story about a bear chasing rabbits and planning to eat them. 

Jack: What should the rabbits do?
Me: Run away?
Jack: Yell, "Eat more chicken!"

(12/2/14)

Nathan told Audrey that he wants to have ten babies when he's a dad.  Audrey told Nathan that this kind of thinking is ridiculous, since even if he was holding five babies, there would still be five that his wife would have to hold.  (Somehow, it must have been implied that all ten were babies at the same time.)

Audrey went on to tell him that all ten babies would cry at the same time.  He replied that he would give them pacifiers.  She insisted that not all babies will take pacifiers.  "Besides," she said," your wife will be worn out.  Mom's already had four." (Clearly, I wasn't a bundle of pep after four babies.)

(12/3/14)

Nathan woke up and came into my bedroom, followed by Jack.

Nathan: I want to go downstairs.
Jack: I want all the things Nate wants. 

(12/3/14)

I had asked Audrey to get dressed while I put Ethan down for a nap.  I came downstairs to find a half-changed, half-pajama-clad Audrey. 

Me: I thought you were going to get dressed. 
Audrey: Oh yeah.  I forgot because I thought of something awesome!

(12/8/14)

Audrey brought me a drawing with three rows of straight lines.  "This is what I want to do with my closet," she said, pointing at the lines.  "Shelves, shelves, shelves, ad nauseam."

"Did you just say 'ad nauseam'?"

"Mmm-hmm."

(12/11/14)

Nathan asked if he could have a treat after eating breakfast.  "No, you're not getting a treat right after breakfast," I said.

After lunch, Nate again asked if he could have a treat.  "Why don't you get dressed first," I said.

"Why don't I hug mom first?" he said.

(12/20/14)

When Audrey began brushing her teeth, I came up with a little toothbrushing song.  I set it to the music of "Shake Your Groove Thing" by Peaches and Herb.  (I'm not sure why I feel the need to set made-up children's songs to disco.  Some things are a sickness that cannot be helped.) This song has been used in an attempt to encourage proper toothbrushing from each subsequent child.  On this particular morning, I was singing it to Jack.  He stopped me cold.

"No, mom.  I want "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

2015

Jason was off playing a computer game called Civilization.  I was looking for him.

"What is Dad doing?"

 (Boy's voice from another room) "Playing Civil-a-Jason."

(1/14/15)

Jack asked me how to spell his name.  I told him and he repeated it.  Then he yelled proudly to his sister, "Audrey, I spelled myself!"

(2/13/15)

The boys pointed out to Audrey that Jason had installed a baby gate in front of the stairs. 

Audrey: You guys don't have to tell me how to climb the gates.  I've been through it all.  I've been climbing these gates since you were babies.

(2/14/15)

Jack: Stop, Ethan!  My eyeballs are not toys!

(2/22/15)

Jason:  You're my favorite Nathan. (As in, his favorite person in the world named Nathan.)
Nathan:  You're my favorite dad that I know right now.

(3/11/15)

Audrey was singing a made-up song to Ethan.

Audrey: I love you, my stinky Valentine.  You are my brother, so we love each other.  I'm glad you'll always be mine.
Jack: Until one of you die.

(March 2015)

Jack was misbehaving at the table.  He had asked for toast, which I had made him.  I told him if he didn't listen, I'd never make him toast again (because, apparently, I believe in threats I can't possibly keep). 

Nathan: Don't worry.  I'll make you toast. 

(3/21/15)

Nathan: Do we go to church today?
Jason: Tomorrow.
Nathan: So the mail comes today.  I was wondering that.
Jason: Wonder no more.
Nathan: I can still wonder things!

(5/3/15)

Our three big kids had been playing at a neighbor's house.  Jack had walked back early.  The neighbor walked Nathan home later.  As they walked, she asked if he was sure that Jack had already come home.  Nate said, "I think he went home, because Dad is working in the backyard and Dad is his favorite, and he's not even the one who gives us the food!"

(6/9/15)

We had chicken noodle soup for dinner.  Jack didn't want to eat his and asked if he could go out and play. 

Me: You won't get ice cream.
Jack: I know.
Me: You won't get anything else to eat tonight.  No more food tonight.
Jack: But I'll get some tomorrow, because if I don't, I'll die.

(6/12/15)

Audrey: I just think it would be funny if you got a gift from someone and it wasn't even close to a natural holiday.

Me: Do you mean national holiday?

(6/18/15)

We were eating picnic-style at Vacation Bible School.  Jack looked up at me and said, "Even sitting down, you're bigger."

"For now.  Someday, you'll be bigger."

"When I'm ninety-two, I'll be bigger.  By then, you'll be dead."

(Summer 2015)

Jason: I love you.
Jack: No, I love you.
Jason: I love you more.
Jack: I love you more.
Jason: No, I love you more.
Jack: Dad, stop arguing. 


That's life with a bundle of boys and one outnumbered little girl.  It's figuring out what the world, and words, mean.  It's finding out what you, and possibly your brother, want.  It's about squeezing the most out of your days, because, as one four-year-old keeps reminding us, we're all going to die one day.  It's about loving, and arguing, and arguing about love.  It's about appreciating the rainbows. Where ever you may find them.











 

Stuck in the Middle, and Two

I have been lax in my posting. So, rather than attempt a typical Week in Review, I thought I'd do a little update on each child and who he/she is right now - beginning with Nathan. Because, sometimes, you just have to begin in the middle.

Nathan rang in the end of 2011 by turning two, landing him squarely in the phase I refer to as "Game On!" (No. No, I do not really say this out loud in the presence of others. I say it in my head, which makes me appear much saner.) If Nate joined an Indian tribe, his name would be Boy With Many Hands Who Moves Silent like the Night. If he were a movie title, it would be Chaos Unleashed. If he were in prison, he'd be kept in "the hole" to keep the other inmates from getting any ideas. If he were in the circus, he'd be a star.

You see, the boy knows tricks. But, more importantly, he knows how to set a scene. It's dramatic to break down the baby gate guarding one's bedroom door. But, it's much more dramatic (and devious and beneficial to further schemes) to break down one's baby gate while one's father (and baby gate ninja-master) is in Japan, leaving your baby gate-handicapped mother at a disadvantage. Said gate-challenged mother might attempt to fix the disassembled gate before deciding to rectify the Babies Gone Wild situation by other means, namely, a filing cabinet and night stand pushed flush with the door. This will work. For one night, after which, the smarter-than-his-mother two-year-old will teach himself to climb over the makeshift baby gate. His mother will discover this the next morning when she is awaken by a thud downstairs - where no one sleeps and, therefore, no one should be. Luckily, God will give her the good sense to recognize the sound as thump of milk jug against hardwood before she scrambles under the bed for the mammoth walking stick (a.k.a. club) her husband purchased from a Jamaican artisan on their honeymoon, and tries to get her jiu jitsu on.

That's how my little man likes to begin his days, with a nice dose of dairy: two-percent, minus a crazy stick-toting mama.

Other things he enjoys right now:

Rearranging the contents of the refrigerator. Particularly the condiments.

Taunting his mother by running through the kitchen with raw eggs (collected during food stuffs reorganization sprees). And, on one occasion, biting into the Nate-napped egg in a last ditch effort to keep it from his mother's hands. (The egg carton has been permanently relocated to the refrigerator's top shelf.)



Creating artwork (on the walls, the chairs, the tub and tile) with the fallen wax soldiers his big sister leaves behind. (The crayons have also been moved to a high shelf, and all but the dry-erase ones replaced with more just-in-case-Jack-eats-one friendlier soy ones.)

Climbing into Jack's exersaucer and bouncing joyously up and down, until he realizes he can't get himself out.

Unrolling the entire roll of toilet paper in an attempt to stuff the porcelain bowl before being interrupted by his mother.

Using clean dish towels and shoving the dirty ones back into the drawer.

Houdining his way beyond the baby gates and deadbolt and out into the neighborhood, preferably to any yard with a swing set. (The front door is now equipped with the mother-of-all childproof locks. Now, no one can get out. Or in.)

Climbing the grape trellis and flinging himself over the five-foot fence to escape to the neighborhood common area. (We no longer have a trellis. Or a grapevine.)

Building Lego towers with his sister and knocking them down before she's ready, affording him an eighty-percent chance of getting beaten up before noon. (Audrey has been reminded - again - of the rule that she may not hit her brother. No matter how misguided his taste in architecture may be.)

(photo by Audrey)

Creating his own take on the English language. Nate has dubbed mandarin oranges "Nemos", and seems to have no problem devouring them, despite his passion for a certain short-finned fish. His father, displaying the power of a Transformer to shift his persona, is now "Babby" (Buddy + Daddy).

The power of a "magic" kiss. This one believes, I tell you. Down deep. I have woken to a wailing boy passing an injured index finger through the bars of his baby gate (how he injured a finger in his sleep he has yet to reveal) at 4 a.m., begging a kiss. One kiss and the boy turned around and put himself back to sleep. Really. What about those instances when a parent can't be reached quickly enough for a magic kiss? Nate's not above kissing his own knee or foot. I've seen it. He's self-sufficient, this one. And flexible.

Covered arms. Nate has a casual style that matches his easy-going attitude, with the exception of one thing: his sleeves, which must remain down at all times (while washing his hands, while eating spaghetti, while painting).

Sleeping in his closet. Nathan has developed a fear of what may be just outside his window. We had a few stormy nights, and the wind played against his walls like a battering ram. He began to panic at bedtime. We would find him wearing his sheets tight against his head like a shroud, always pointing to the window when we unwound him. Jason covered his blinds with a dark sheet, hoping to blot out the monster behind the pane. But minutes later, I found him crouched on top of the windowsill, nose against the glass, sobbing. We tried to let him sleep in Audrey's room - to the detriment of her bathroom (and the waterlogged baseboards). We tried to move Jack into the same room as Nate - to the detriment of Jack (who did not expect a crib hijacking midway through the night). We hoped the return of nice weather would ease his mind. But when we checked on him, we couldn't find him - until we opened the closet. We moved him back to his bed. We found him back in the closet. The closet is now outfitted with pillows and blankets. He prefers to sleep there with the door closed. Lights out. I can't say I blame him. I tried it out once. It's cozy. And has great acoustics.


Two is a little like that. It's about cozying-up to your new-found abilities and trying them on for size. It's finding your place and leaving a dent (or red crayon mark). It's noise and devious silence. It's two hands (refusing to roll up their sleeves) introducing themselves to the dirt and showing him they've come out to play. Game on.

Audrey: An Update

 She's a teense on stilts.  Her legs parade around as a 5T, but her waist is holding steady at a 2.  You might say, she's only growing up.  But, in spite of what her waist might lead you to believe, part of her is ever-expanding.  This one has a brain that just won't quit.  

Her creativity: it's stretching.  Her stories may not be long.  They may not follow a pattern.  They might not make much sense.  But, they are always, always entertaining.  A short sampling:

"That was the story of the beautiful butterfly who had lots of kids, but one died.  But, she had many more and then the one came back to life.  Created by Audrey Paige.  She is five."

(Describing a Lego creation) "It's a bird: a toucan who lives in the jungle.  In Alaska!"

She might not always get the words right:

(Singing) "I rebeat (repeat) the sounding joy."

(Attempting to "rebeat" her father's singing) "G.I. Joe, great American in the road!" (For the record, Jason's version ended with "hero".)

She hasn't learned the nuance of every word:

"Can we have a movie night?" she asked.

"I don't know.  I'm going to have to run out," I said.

"Run out of what?"

Other words, she knows all too well:

"You can play with your princesses during quiet time," I said.

"You can't call it 'princesses' when there's only one," she corrected.

 She's grown to see the world through a unique lens:

"It's our last day for Peter Pan," she said.  "We read two chapters on football day."

"On football day?"

"Yeah.  Dad watched football all day after church."

Audrey recognized a neighbor, but couldn't remember her name.  I told her the girl's name.  Audrey asked how I knew.  "I know her mom," I said.

"Is her mom your friend?"

"Well, she just moved here, but we're becoming friends."

"Is she becoming your best friend?" she asked.  

"I don't think my best friend, but a friend."

"You never know what can happen, Mom!" she said, running outside to play with her brothers.  

One Friday, Audrey asked when Emmy (our dog) will die.  She then described her burial plans for our sweet Em, which included putting the dog in a box and surrounding her with "things", before decorating the box and writing Emmy's name on it so we'd know it was her.  (This leads me to wonder how many things she plans to bury in our backyard.)

Audrey made huge strides in her swimming abilities this summer with the help of her teacher, Valerie.  "It's some kids' worse thing when she lets go of them to have them try by themselves," she said after a lesson.  "It's my happiest thing."

Jason holds the title of family jokester and magician.  Audrey is still trying to figure out how he was able to make a (murphy) bed appear and disappear while on vacation a couple years ago.  One afternoon, I handed her a duck-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Failing to see the avian cookie cutter hiding on the counter, she asked me how I had made it.  "Mama magic," I said.  Later, upon finding the cookie cutter, she asked if I had "joked" her.  

"Mom, I didn't know you joke sometimes.  You decided to try it today?"

 

 Jason and Audrey seem to be developing a comedy routine all their own:

Jason brought a set of chopsticks home from Japan for each member of our family.  He took them out of the bag, spread them across the center of the table and asked, "What are these for?"

"Knitting," said Audrey.

Some typical Audrey/Jason dinner banter:

"Audrey, you're doing such a good job reading, next year you'll be reading Harry Potter," Jason said.

"What are you meaning?" she asked.

"Audrey, is the answer A, B, C, or D?"

"A."

"No, C.  The answer is always C."

"What is the riddle?"

"What did angels wear?" Jason asked.

"White shirts and skirts," said Audrey.

"Were there boy angels?"

"Well, Gabriel was a boy, so I imagine there are boy angels, Daddy."

One day, I read Audrey a library book about an octopus who searches for the perfect crag in a rock to hide and lay her eggs.  The book accurately portrayed the life of a mother octopus, who dies shortly after her eggs hatch.  "I know another whose lives are like octopuses," she told her father at dinner.  "We are."

"That's right," he agreed.  "You guys hatched and mama's life was over," he laughed.  

One afternoon, Jason brought up the idea of cleaning out the garage while the kids rode bikes in the driveway and cul de sac.  "We could kill two birds with one stone," he said.

"I want to kill a bird," said Audrey.

Audrey crawled into our bed early one morning.  When Jason roused himself for the day, he found Audrey between us.  "I thought you were Nate," he said.  "I thought you were bigger than that."

"Surprise!" she said.

I sneezed.  Jason said, in a sing-song way, "God bless you!"  

Audrey responded, "God messed you up!"

One afternoon, Jason prepared to go till the garden (having not done much physical activity in the months prior).  "I hope I don't have a heart attack," he joked on his way out.

"What's a heart attack?" Audrey asked.

Jason explained how the heart works and what happens when someone experiences a heart attack.  He then explained that he was joking and would be fine.  Then, he walked out the door.  "There's something crazy about him," Audrey said, heading to the closet and grabbing her shoes.  "I better go check on him."

Of course, if the comedy routine falls through with her father, Nathan's becoming quite a good stand-in:

Audrey: (as Nate refused to help her pick up) You're mean.

Nathan: No, I Nate.

Audrey: You're Nate, but you're being mean.  

Audrey: You're a mammal.

Nathan: No, I Nate.

Audrey: You are called Nate.  Mom is a mammal and we were born from her, so we are mammals.

Nathan: No.  I Nate.  

One night at dinner, the kids wanted yogurt.  I told them they needed to eat the rest of their meal first.  Nate motioned to the plate he was diligently emptying forkful by forkful, and reiterated my rule.  

"Nate is very sensible," Audrey said.

"Yeah, and I have all my hair," he said.  

Close to bedtime one night, I asked Audrey to run outside to find a stray container.  Nathan ran to the back door.  "I'll get it!"

Audrey tore after him.  "No, I'll get it!"

A few minutes later, I heard her yell again.  "I win!"

"I lose!" Nate yelled, just as loud and proud.  (Ironically, no one brought in the container.)

Audrey asked if she could ride the penny-a-ride horse at Meijer, following a successful shopping spree.  I agreed.  She mounted the plastic steed, put her penny in the slot, and waited.  The horse sputtered, but never left the gate.  

"I'll help!" Nate said.  He walked to the front of the horse and gave the animal's front hooves a good yank.  It sprang to life, suddenly moving up and down.

"Impressive!" Audrey yelled from her perch atop the saddle.

Of course, what's a growing five (six, now that I'm typing this all out)-year-old without a growing attitude?

An original song:

"I've always been a little bit right.  Yes, I've always been a little right."

Another original song:

"Okay, okay, okay, okay, let's go because it's a nice day (repeat).  

Okay, okay, just leave the dishes in the sink and come on over.  

Okay, okay, okay, okay, leave the dishes in the sink until it gets deep.

Just jump on the stage.  Just jump on the stage.

Come on over.

(Nathan followed her instructions and jumped on the stage.  He was promptly pushed off.)

One night, after patiently waiting for me to finish a story, Audrey glanced over and said, "Now can you zip your mouth, please, so I can tell you something?"

One afternoon as Audrey was hanging "decorations" through the house for a make-believe party, she asked, "Will friends come for Nathan's birthday?"  

I explained that since Nate was little, we'd probably just celebrate as a family.  "I want people to come admire it," she said.  "Did friends come admire me after I was born?"

 

(Audrey got temporary tattoos at a pirate-themed birthday party.  

                    She asked if she could put one on.  I agreed, as long as she didn't put it on 

                   her face.  She listened.  She came out of the bathroom with that skull and 

crossbones slapped perfectly-centered across her windpipe.)

One afternoon, after pulling off a feat of kindergarten-genius in front of Nathan, Audrey threw her hands up and said, "Yes, I know.  I'm a rocket star!"

And she is.  She's our "rocket" star, ready to launch whether we're ready or not.  She is knows-no-bounds energy, with a hunger for discovery.  She is effervescent, and moving at the speed of light.  We are just the launch pad, left to watch, praying that she stays in orbit.  

I would not mind stalling the journey, collecting the moments to lock them - frozen - in an Audrey-at-five time capsule.  But five does not stand still:

"Prince Eric is my favorite prince," she said after watching The Little Mermaid.

"Why?" I asked.

"I like the look of him."

"You have a make-up lesson today," I told her one evening after we had just gotten out of the car from a day-long visit with relatives from out-of-town.  "Do you want to go?"

Audrey's eyes widened.  "Yes!  What am I going to learn?"

"You'll probably work on the same things you've been doing: bobbing up an down, backstroke, scissor kicks, frog kicks."

Suddenly, she seemed a little crest-fallen as she realized that I was talking about a make-up swim lesson and not a tutorial on mascara application.  

And, just like that, five became six.  

No, this is one launch for which we're completely unprepared.  But it's coming, ready or not.  After all, she's only growing up. 

For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 100

Tucked under this roof is a little blond stuffed to the gills with holiday spirit. She begins each day with the same announcement, "Today is a decorating day." For her, the holidays are a month-long opportunity for creativity and whimsy and feasting on cookies. And, if she had her druthers, I imagine she would spend the month living in a life-sized gingerbread house (or at the least, turning ours into one). It's good to be four.

The much older brunette in the house has been known to get caught up in another type of holiday spirit - the kind that involves marking off the days on the calendar; counting the ones left by the amount of time spent waiting in lines, wrapping gifts, or driving in a car; and generally worrying about how to get everything done. You know, the grumpy kind.

But a funny thing has happened this year. The season will have to get along worrying for itself, it seems I'm all booked up. Right around the time the frenzied holiday worrying really kicks in, Nathan (as Jason so aptly put it) became fluent in walking, covering the distance of a room, making a u-turn and walking back, exploring behind the Christmas tree, and sneaking through the baby gate when his sister doesn't get it closed fast enough (followed by a mad dash for the stairs). In short, he's having the time of his life. At this same time, Audrey began putting on "shows" - shows that require audiences and frequent costume changes to include every outfit in her dress-up suitcase. With these new family endeavors (not to mention a little someone's birthday fast-approaching) demanding the focus of our attention (although, the costume changes in which Audrey insists I not look have carved out quite a niche for mama's knitting), December is beginning to feel like any other month - with the odd addition of a Christmas tree in our family room and lights and garland snaking their way up the banister. The worrying and slow-building stack of gifts to wrap and cards to write and address will have to wait. There's a little boy doing laps around the kitchen table and, one never knows when the next show will begin.



There are also these, the moments of the week:

On Monday, Audrey was playing with a doll who happened to be wearing an apron with pencil markings on it. She told me she had written on the doll's apron.

"Oh, what did you write?" I asked.

"I appreciate this girl and love her so much I gave her a hug and a kiss."

(It's hard to advise a child against performing graffiti when those are the messages she "writes").


Tuesday afternoon Audrey was winding the backdoor curtain into a rope and trying to swing on it while pretending it was the long hand of a clock.

"Audrey, please stop," I said. "That's going to break if you keep doing that and I made that curtain, so I'll be sad if it breaks."

She dropped the curtain and picked up a stray plastic bat, which she began beating against the floor.

"Audrey, stop. You're going to hurt the floor."

"Did you make the floor?"


That evening at dinner she told Jason she wanted to be a doctor, a mommy, and an artist. Jason told her that if she was an artist and a mommy, she could be like me.

"Mom could be an artist some day when she grows up," she said.


We have a rule in our house about screaming or uncontrollable crying. If someone needs to do it (read: Audrey), that's fine, but they need to go to their room or the basement so the rest of us can keep our hearing intact. Friday morning, Nate began crying loudly, which caused Emmy to begin howling, and lead Audrey to say to the both of them, "If you guys are going to keep doing that, you need to go to the basement."


That afternoon, while coloring, Audrey told me, "my crayon almost broke."

"Oh no."

"Why did you say 'oh no?'" she asked. "That's nothing to worry about."


Besides fine-tuning his walking abilities, Nathan has also been honing his vocal skills. My favorite new addition to our daily routines is the introduction of the "da-da" song. When he has a full tummy, has embarked on a successful exploring mission, or throws his hands up in a triumphant "touchdown" sign, Nate begins to sing a song made up of one word, "da-da." It's a simple song. It's a happy song. And, while Jason isn't always here when Nathan sings it, every evening when they hear the garage door go up, Nate and Emmy race to the door, vying for the spot closest to where Jason will walk in (meanwhile, Audrey runs to hide, informing me each time not to tell Jason where she is, beginning our first game of hide 'n seek for the evening). I understand this song and dance. Da-da is my happy song, too.

These being the moments that make up the songs and celebrations of our every day, I'm not going to worry about my list of things undone, the scattered and now-disheveled ornaments I keep tripping over, or fast-approaching immovable deadlines. These are nothing more than broken crayons, and we all know that's nothing to worry about.

Fiction Thursday

This story is a little longer than what I will typically post on a Thursday, so I won’t give much background. I’ll save that for another time. I will say that it began as an assignment for a class. It was meant to be a short exercise, not a complete story, but once I got going, it just wrote itself. (I’ve often heard professional writers make similar annoying statements. This is the only time it’s ever happened to me. I walked around stunned. For days.) My professor suggested I send it to a magazine. So I did. I entered Glimmer Train’s Very Short Fiction contest. I won third place and $300. I have a very sweet memory of Jason running into the house from the mailbox with a letter from Glimmer Train with “third place winner” written on the envelope. He jumped onto the bed, waving it in my face to wake me up. I used the prize money to buy an elliptical machine. It’s still in our basement (the elliptical machine, not the envelope).


Southbound

It was a bet made between children. The sort of thing that occurs when boys grow restless with lemonade stands or catching tadpoles, or the creek has dried to cracked dust. Not that anyone (myself, included) had ever witnessed anything of this magnitude before, but we could have. Boys will grow restless.

Boys grow restless when saturated by too much sun, when their bodies become too tanned or their hair too dry. They grow restless when given too many days of summer in which to ride their bikes and create new paths, which they will do – through fields marked with signs of “no trespassing” and the prints of young boys, through the yards of widows, until they feel the itch growing from their bellies to discover new boundaries.

It was a bet made between brothers. A bet, like most between brothers, that one never expects to be carried to fruition, like the time you found a roll of pennies in your father’s desk and insisted that your brother could not fit ten up his nose, which had been true, he only being able to squeeze three into his left nostril before being found by your mother.

(Was she, perhaps, to blame, having not come quick enough? Not quick enough to save him by a nose.)

Many evenings of setting summer sun were spent at the county hospital wriggling the big ideas out of restless boys, extracting pennies from their nostrils, stitching the cuts above their eyes. Nightly, nurses bandaged wounded elbows and knees while mothers administered the medicine of “you should have known better.” Just wait until your father hears.

It was a bet made between an older brother and a younger brother on bicycles. One rode a brand-new red Roadmaster Luxury Liner, its paint slick like the waxy skin of a Red Delicious. The other brother, having not just turned eleven, rode a secondhand (the first hand always being his brother’s) Schwinn Deluxe DX painted green, where paint remained. He was eight.

During the summer, younger brothers become tag-alongs. They follow you through Old Packard’s field riding their scraped-and-dented bottle-green bikes. As they coast through furrows, they whoop like cowboys and ride clumsily over molehills like girls or headless chickens. They draw attention to themselves and pedal slow. They bring fist-shaking widows to their porches.

No eleven-year-old wants to tote his eight-year-old brother through town. It’s not the kind of duty you volunteer for. It’s imposed upon you with threats or bribes of a dollar for fountain drinks. You crease the bill, stuff it into your back pocket and hope you don’t bump into Molly Waters or any of her friends at the soda shop while drinking brown cows with your kid brother.

After you slurp the last suds from your froth-coated glasses, you stick to fields and back roads. You stick to back roads because you will bump into fewer people than you would in town, particularly Molly Waters. You never expect your little brother to get hit.

It was a bet made out of boredom. The dollar had been reduced to change. The creek bed had been visited and jumped over – even though it was dry, presenting little threat or opportunity for amusement. Carvings had been made in the dried trough, the unsettled earth shavings transferred to pant legs and socks. The Carter boys had been invited along and Packard’s field had been ridden through twice. The bikes had even plowed between two rows of corn, the fresh leaves slicing bare arms, the underdeveloped husks beating the knuckles gripping the handlebars.

It was late summer and all the usual paths had already been taken. The bikes turned west, following the fields of corn and beans to the edge of town. They passed the Prue sisters’ place, an old farmhouse that smelled of worn muslin drapes and licorice, where boys were dragged – some by their ears – on the last days of summer to have their pants let down before the start of school. They passed the Prue place. Handy’s Fill-Up, the bait and tackle hut. They passed the last scatterings and scraps of town until they met the edge, marked by the tracks of the Southbound.

It was a bet made never to be repeated. It’s something one can’t even imagine. It’s the kind of dare that you can only conceive as you see the Southbound approaching, when the words form in your throat before you realize what you are saying. “You can have the leftover change from the sodas if you can beat the train across the tracks.”

It’s a gamble your kid brother should never take you up on. But he does. Maybe he wants to impress Bud and Joey Carter, or maybe he gets caught up in the rush of the train. Either way, he begins pedaling in hard, quick strokes upward toward the tracks. The eldest Carter whoops and beats his fist in the air like he’s at Fenway Park wanting your little brother to swing away, past the bleachers and lights.

Your kid brother is losing speed. You notice his stroke has become rough, his feet turning the spokes in uneven increments, off-rhythm. You yell for him to stop, to turn back. But he has cleared the hill and the train’s whistle drowns you out. He continues to the tracks.

It’s a tie. The Carter boy is no longer whooping. He is biting his fist as the other one screams. You run toward the tracks, change jingling in your pocket as you call your brother’s name. But nothing can be done; you must wait for the train to pass. You must wait to collect your brother, wait as the Southbound separates you.

You replay his ascent up the hill, trying to determine where he will be when the train passes.

He might have made it had he kept straight, had he not looked back. But he turned to look, look at the oncoming train, look back at me. He looked and his shoulder arched, the handlebars turning, the cross of the bike twisting. And he was a toddler again, wobbling unsteadily, his arms and legs unable to catch up with one another, as if being partnered for the first time. And he looked back, the look one more of surprise – as if questioning – than fear, as he tumbled. A toss of legs and arms. Appendages.

It was a bet made and lost.

We waited by the tracks, waited for the train to pass. We waited for the crew to collect my brother and clear away the pieces of bottle-green Schwinn. We waited for the sirens and lights to dissipate, for our parents to stop clutching us to their chests. We waited for summer to end, to outgrow our bikes.

* * * *

So there you have it, my last complete story. I’m sorry if it’s a bit more depressing than you were hoping for today (I once had someone read it and say, “but you seem like such a happy person,” and I have to say, it was harder for me reading it this time as a parent - I wasn't one when I wrote it). It’s not the path I wanted for the brothers, but I suppose if they didn’t occasionally have minds of their own, we wouldn’t call them characters. Hopefully, Audrey will offer up some more light-hearted fare for tomorrow. The next Fiction Thursday will be in two weeks. (Please forgive certain things not being centered or spaced right. I began typing this using a different program last night. Unfortunately, I'm not savvy enough to navigate between the two.)

For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 95

Lately, our days have been much like this morning. I leave the house with a nearly empty gas tank, a feverish boy, and a deadline. We make it to our destination on time and then to a gas station just minutes after the "check gauge" light has flicked on (I swear, a few weeks ago - or months, who can be sure - I was doing a brilliant job at filling my tank when it reached the halfway level). I reach for my purse and fiddle around in every pocket before remembering I consolidated my belongings to one bag the day before at the art museum in an attempt to make my load lighter. I have no wallet, which means, I should have no money and a certain little feverish boy and I are going to, most likely, end up walking or hitching a ride home when our car does indeed run out of gas. This is what our morning would have looked like, had it not been for the most fortunate incident of having to, unfortunately, use a port-a-potty last week.

Last week, upon leaving school, the kids and I were invited to an impromptu play date at a park. It's a fairly new space with no bathrooms, except for two lonely green port-a-potties at the end of a long gravel parking lot. As soon as I pulled into the park, Audrey announced she had to potty. Were I to compose a list of things I attempt to avoid using, port-a-potties would be on it. But when a four-year-old has to go, I book it to the little green boxes. Sadly, I'm not one of those together mothers who stocks her car with wet wipes and antibacterial hand sanitizer (although, after returning to the car with Audrey, I double-checked on the off-chance there's a fairy cleansing God mother who does go about stocking one's car with such items). I also use cloth wipes for Nate, which means that there weren't any wet wipes in my purse, either. But, I do have a first aid kit stashed in my car, and first aid kits contain sterile wipes. Yahtzee! I unzipped the kit and was surprised to stumble upon ten dollars that I forgot I had tossed inside, just in case. I put the ten dollars back, retrieved the sterile wipe (said a silent thank you to my mom's group for putting me in charge of giving the safety/emergency presentation last April - seriously, you thought I wasn't together enough to carry wet wipes but somehow on top of my game enough to have a first aid kit hanging around without some outside influence?), and wiped my daughter's hands.

We went about our week, and right into the next one until I found myself at a gas station with a tease of gas and no wallet. Normally, this is when I'd begin having visions of drudging my sick boy home through the rain (did I mention it had started sprinkling?). But not today. Today, I had visions of a lucky spur-of-the-moment play date and a pair of beautiful kelly green port-a-potties. I grabbed that first aid kit, rummaged for my ten bucks, and got us home with gas to spare.

Our days have been like that lately, we're not running on full tanks, but magically, there always seems to be a port-a-potty standing by when we need one. And, of course, there are these, the moments of last week:

Nathan is a boy of few words, but his actions are building his story. Last week, I caught him picking something off the floor and popping it into his mouth. "No, Nathan," I said, "what do you have?" He responded by taking the object out of his mouth, crawling the five feet to get to me, and holding it out to me. I took it, right after I picked my jaw up from the floor. He's continued this unique behavior (and yes, yes I should probably vacuum my floor).

Tuesday, we were packing to return to Indiana. Audrey came downstairs in her pajamas and stood next to one of the suitcases. "Look Dad, if I stand really still, I look like a suitcase."

One of Audrey's favorite pastimes is listening to stories. Almost daily, she asks me to make up stories for her (most involving Franklin and Bear). I have begun to ask for her help in creating the stories (she refuses to tell me stories) to get her more involved. Tuesday morning, while driving to the airport, she asked for a story. We asked her what it should be about and she began spinning the yarn. By the time she finished, we were almost at the airport. "I didn't know I could say it that long!" she said.

Wednesday, while feeding the dog, she dropped some of the food on the floor. As she gathered it, she said, "I just need to grab a handfew."

I hadn't been feeling well much of the week. Audrey knew my stomach had been bothering me. Wednesday, during dinner, she asked, " Do you think the baby growing in your belly's tummy hurts when your tummy hurts?" (Ahem, I have a little explaining to do. More on that later this week.)

Friday, Audrey put her debate skills to work. I was her first challenge. Upon pulling out of the grocery store parking lot, I didn't see a van pull up behind me. I pulled back into my spot, waving and saying "sorry." "Why did you say 'sorry'? Audrey asked. I began to explain when she continued, "Why did you say you're sorry? Your window is up. Her window is up. She can't hear you. Why did you say you're sorry?" Seeing her logic defeated mine, I quickly dropped out of the debate.

She didn't fare so well with Jason. That evening, he put her stuffed dog on his head and asked how she liked his hat.
"That's not a hat," she said.
"Yes it is," he countered.
She ran to the closet and pulled out one of her winter hats.
"See, this is a hat. That is not a hat."
"Why isn't it a hat," he asked.
"Because it has a tail. Hats don't have tails."
Unfortunately, the hat she had chosen from her collection was a bunny hat, with a tail. Jason pointed this out. The debate turned ugly. Neither would concede their point (of course, Jason was laughing during his portion while Audrey was yelling and growing close to tears, she was so passionate about proving that dog was not a hat). The high school debate team better watch out, this one's getting in some early practice.

I'm not much of a planner. I've found that the biggest gifts of my life and best moments of my days are those I couldn't have planned. I've found that some of the most frustrating moments are those that I try to control only to realize I can't. Luckily, someone seems to be looking out for me, creating good from the bad and moments of laughter when we most need them. I'm taking these busy days of November and counting my blessings (that, and replacing that ten dollars with a twenty - just in case).

For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 110

With a little over two months before we meet our newest little man, it's safe to say that nesting has taken up residence in our home and my mind. It's taken root here, which may explain why I've promoted it from a verb to guest status. (Although, true be told, it's just that kind of a year - a reevaluation year, if you will. A new job for one family member, a growing girl with growing stuff and activities, a boy suddenly on the move, and another boy about to move in. It just seems smart to take a little time to make sure everything is working for us and not against us as we embark on all this newness). I find myself in the thick of it, spending each free moment sorting, making, redesigning, and reading all manner of how-to manuals and organization books. While I tend to enjoy the process (and get embarrassing huge thrills out of taking the smallest of measures to improve a room or system) I don't want to get too busy to record a few stories from the week past. Turns out, I'm not the only one with much on my mind. Here are a few of Audrey's thoughts from last week (and a small indication of just what we're up against daily with this one who is a little too smart for her mama's own good):

Wednesday night, Jason took Audrey up to bed. As he tucked her in, she asked him about monsters. Jason told her not to worry that he was bigger than monsters.

"Are you bigger than the Abominable Snowman?" she asked. (We had let her watch an old version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer last Christmas, which I forgot included the Abominable Snowman).

"You're bigger than the Abominable Snowman," he said.

"What!" she said, before asking about the elves and how big they were.

"The elves are tiny. They only come up past your ankles," he said.

"But they were bigger than the reindeer," she said.

"Yes."

"But the reindeer pull Santa's sleigh, Dad."


Thursday night was one of those evenings where, by morning, everyone was in the master bed. I woke up to a child nestled on each side. Audrey woke up first. I told her I was going to the bathroom and would be right back. I forgot to tell her not to wake up her brother. I came back to find him wide awake.

"Did you wake up your brother?" I asked.

"I did this (touching his face) and it didn't wake him up. I did this (poking another spot), but it didn't wake him up. Then, I did this (tickling his leg) and he woke up!"

Luckily, she was in the mood not only to poke and prod her brother (trial-and-error style), but also to play. As I got ready and cleaned the bathroom sink, she led him on a search through the master bedroom and bath for Emmy (who had already taken her leave downstairs). Not able to find Emmy, she led Nathan on a scavenger hunt for things that are soft like Emmy - stray pillow feathers, stuffed animals, and the like. I cleaned and listened to the PBS special unfolding in my bathroom.


Friday night, she was praying with Jason before bed.

"God, why do lions roar?" she asked. "God, why are wolves meat-eaters?"

"That's not how you pray," Jason said. "When you pray, you ask for help for something or say thank you for something."

"God, help me understand why lions roar. Help me understand why wolves are meat-eaters."


Nathan has his own thought processes fast at work, ones that involve motion and figuring out how to pull himself up onto the couch with (and sometimes without) assistance, thoughts that cause him to break into dashes around the kitchen island and into the family room in pursuit of his sister or the dog. His thoughts cause him to burst into laughter (the contagious belly kind that don't seem right coming out of one so small) at the smallest sights: blocks tumbling out of bags, a ball almost caught. These are the moments, those breaks in the nesting process, that bring me back to why I spend so much time preparing, clearing spaces for play, building tools and stocking cabinets in preparation for growth. Because, that's what we're doing - building little people, one big thought, one belly laugh at a time.

It's a Plesiosaur Wall Decoration, didn't you know (the plesiosaur, a sea creature who lived at the time of the dinosaurs laid its eggs on the beach and is suspended in tissue paper water, above, surrounded by red fish)? She's the latest dinosaur creation to leave our kitchen table - again from the book Crafts for Kids Who Are Wild About Dinosaurs.

For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 120

Audrey just propositioned me for a monkey. But Mom, our house would be its cage. But Mom, it could play with my toys. But Mom, a monkey would be excellent! These conversations lead to bargains. Let's buy an elephant. How about a giraffe? We could keep it in the backyard. A hippopotamus? A sheep? A horse? A pig? These negotiations lead to talks about the Home Owners' Association. I explain that while she sees our house as the perfect "cage" for a monkey and our backyard as suitable living quarters for (at the very least) a pig, others do not view the world through her lens. There's a lot of that going around. Audrey is developing a "world" view of her own. It may not seem cohesive to the rest of us. On any given Wednesday, it might include a pair of flowered shorts being the perfect hat for a sunny day and the branch of a pear tree acting as an acceptable umbrella holder. It's not always ideal. It may not make sense to the masses. But, it's always original, delivered with the kind of pluck that only a four-year-old can muster. And (luckily), she's more than willing to share it with the rest of us. Our moments, from the last few weeks:

The first week of June:

I try to keep the television off while the kids are awake. But, there is something about the nonstop feeding of a newborn that draws me to the couch - and the remote, especially on weekends. I think that Jason has the other kids occupied. I tell myself they aren't paying attention. I turn on HGTV and watch marathon episodes of House Hunters. Audrey plays between the kitchen and the family room, wrestling with Jason, clobbering any available brother, and creating chaos from everyday home furnishings. Midway through my second or third House Hunter's episode one day, she asks, "Why do they let people sneak in the houses?"

Later that week, I was putting Audrey to bed. Like always, we said a prayer. Unlike always, Audrey insisted that we pray for rhyming things. We thanked God for our nose and toes, dogs and frogs and polliwogs (okay, not really for polliwogs, but you get the idea). We try to take a little time to learn a verse or two at night as well. Apparently, Audrey thought she could put her own spin on the verses. That night, she thought she would just create her own. According to Audrey, John 14:6 says, And He will tickle us.

On Saturday, I was clipping coupons. Audrey wanted in on the action. She cut out coupons and any pictures that interested her. She found an ad with a picture of the world. "Mama, it's the whirled! It's the whirled! I want to cut out the whirled!"

Second week of June:

On Monday, I think Nathan wanted to show that he's taking in a little bit more of the world (or whirled, if you prefer) around him, too, as he sat a book, opened to a picture of a bird, in my lap and said what sounded like a Nate-version of "bird". He hasn't said it since, but "ball" has become a vocabulary mainstay for our little guy.

Tuesday, after making a comment that proved Jason wrong, Audrey said, "I got you with that one."

The following day, she and I were building houses with Legos. After showing me her technique, she asked, "Now do you know the proper way to make a house?"

Saturday, while eating lunch, I was telling Jason about running into a friend who, seeing Nate for the first time, said, "Well, you can definitely tell who his daddy is."

"Really? Do you see it?" he asked.

I looked at Nate. He turned in my direction, smiled, and made a monkey face.

"Yes," I said.

Third week of June:

Monday morning, I caught Nate unwinding a skein of garden twine through the office and into the dining room. I told Nate "no." "It's okay," Audrey said as Nathan stomped exuberantly on the twine. "He's just making it pretty and clean."

Tuesday morning, Audrey and I were playing dress up. She placed a red wig on my head, along with my sister's wedding veil. Then, she tried to slide elbow-length child-sized gloves up my arms. "You're the God fairy," she said. "You're the Godfather." I believe I was supposed to be the fairy Godmother, but you can call me The Don.

We typically light a candle at dinner as something that sets that time apart as special family time. Tuesday, the older kids were having a sleepover at Grammy's, so Audrey wanted to light a candle at lunch before she left for the night. We had finished lunch and the candle was blown out. Audrey noticed the melted wax surrounding the wick. "What is the water?" she asked. I explained that when wax melts, it becomes liquid. "Oh! Liquid is inside of toads!"


Toads contain liquid that may or may not be related to wax. Scarface wears elbow-length pink satin gloves. Nate's newly acquired longer reach has him sneaking his fingers into the kitchen drawers and running through the house brandishing a turkey baster. When he stomps on things, they magically become clean. Jack is looking less like a baby and more like the boy he's about to become (and teasing us with the occasional smile). I haven't seen the tops of my counters in weeks. And this house, well, it might just be the perfect home for a monkey.

For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review: 28

This has been an interesting week in labels. When Audrey asks me my name, I tend to tell her it's "mama", just because I'm afraid of having a toddler who calls me "Kristin" all the time. Well, she must have picked up on Jason calling me "Kris". Apparently, Tuesday morning I did not come to her room quickly enough. Suddenly, I heard the baby gate that blocks her door rattling and her yelling, "Kris! Kris! I need to go potty!"

Audrey has also been really focused on pointing out who is a man and who is a woman. (Of course, she calls every man a "big man" and every woman a "big woman", as opposed to a "little boy" or "little girl." This led to a little explanation on my part in Target this week as she says, "Look. It's a big woman," in regard to an employee retagging items on a shelf. The woman was maybe a size 6.) So I suppose it should not have caught us off-guard when she looked at her Dad on Tuesday night and said, "I love you, man."

Apparently, Audrey doesn't discriminate when it comes to talking about size. She also notices when she's the bigger woman. Thursday night I was letting her watch a cartoon while I finished dinner. The main character asked, "Are you coming to my sleepover?"

Audrey said, "No, I'm too big."


Thursday morning Audrey slept in. It was nine '0 clock before she woke up. When I went to get her out of bed she said, "It's too early." Of course, when I offered to let her sleep a little longer, she declined.


Today she told me she wanted to eat at Chick-fil-a. I told her that we had food at home and were eating there. "Chick-fil-a is closed?" she asked.

"It's closed for us today," I said.

"Can Jesus open it?" she asked.

I laughed. "If anyone can open it when it's closed, it's Jesus, honey. But we're still eating at home."


One of the sweetest expressions Audrey has begun to use this week is "Can I have you?" She says this when she wants to crawl into my lap (usually when I'm in the middle of some project) or wants me to pick her up.


The other sweet thing we've had a lot of are serenades. Audrey's favorite songs to sing are the chorus of "Stop in the Name of Love" (taught to her by her Dad, complete with hand motions) and "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" sung as:

"Tinkle Tinkle Little Star. I know what you are."

I think that there is something very special about two-and-a-half-year-olds. Something that allows them to know what stars and other things are before we go about telling them what they should think and of what everything is made. Part of them that does not know that there are words to which others may take offense (even when used honestly). Part of them that knows nothing is impossible. Someone is always able to open a door for them, and sometimes, the best way to get someone's love or attention is simply to ask. And when all else fails, it never hurts to sing.

Wishing you a great weekend!

Brothers

Someday, they'll kill me for this photo.  But not today.  Of course, they're brothers - the kind who know which stuffed animal will bring the most comfort, and how to torture said animal to elicit instant screams.  They might kill each other first. 

Jason and I didn't walk the short road to parenthood.  Ours was three years long and dimly lit.  Some days, the only things linking us to parenthood were the words we spoke: about hurdles, possible solutions, hope.  Most days, our words dried up: browned leaves, crumpled and blown away. 

Then, on a bright day after Halloween, Audrey was born.  Healthy and vibrant, she passed out her personality like free treats for the taking.  We were a couple of kids eager to fill our bags.  Soon, they were stuffed, full in places we didn't realize had been empty. 

Cheeks coated in sugar, we were hesitant to talk siblings, the taste of dehydrated leaves still fresh on our tongues.  We liked living in the land of Counting Our Blessings rather than the Badlands. We almost decided to call it a family.  But we didn't. 

Had I known the who(s) that awaited us at the end of that big, dark question mark, I would have plunged from that cliff head-first.  But I couldn't see the bare-bummed brothers bath time photo from the precipice, only the harrowing distance of the fall down. 

Today, the boys are four and weeks-from three.  Their accumulated years are small, but their impact large.  After all, without them we wouldn't have these moments, scribbled and saved on scraps in the kitchen drawer waiting for a blog:


Nathan (legs under his covers preparing for bedtime, a puzzle piece held up to his ear): Audrey!  Audrey!  Why can't she hear me? 


In the past year, the kids have been enjoying nursery rhymes.  Audrey checked a book of nursery rhymes out from the library and read them to Nathan.  They decided to write their own.  A game ensued during lunch in which each would take a turn creating and reciting his or her own rhyme.  If the other liked the rhyme, he or she would yell "Nice!"  If not, the listener would yell "Trash can!" (As in, I'm throwing your rhyme away.  Apparently, we're also into tossing out one another's artwork.) 


Over the summer, Audrey would conduct "school" with Nathan.  One afternoon, I heard her yell that it was time for school.  Nathan, next to me and intrigued in his own project, yelled back, "I'll be there in two minutes.  No, five minutes, Auds.  Auds, I'll be there in eight minutes!" 


Nathan had a paper shark that he folded in half and gave to Jack.  Jack put it in his pocket.  Later, Nathan tried to get it out of Jack's pocket and said, "It's broken."

"It's not broken, it's folded in half," I said.
"Well, it can't swim when it's in half." 


Jack was singing one afternoon while standing next to Nathan.  The song contained two words, "Ella Bella," repeated over and over. 

Nathan (looking at Jack, bewildered):  My name is Nathan.  Jack, did you forget my name?


One September afternoon, Nathan and I were reviewing an alphabet movie.  "The 'a' says what?" I asked.

Nathan:  ă.  
Me:  Right.  The 'a' says ă.
Jack :  A dog says 'ruff.' 


Wednesday morning, Jack and I were making banana bread.  He mumbled something about being dangerous. 

Me: Dangerous?  What's dangerous?
Jack: I'm dangerous.
Me:  You're dangerous?  Why are you dangerous?
Jack: I'm a boy.
Me: Boys aren't dangerous.  Boys are nice.  Just because you're a boy doesn't mean you have to act dangerous.  Who told you boys are dangerous?
Jack: Nathan.


And, finally, some bathtub humor to bring us back to the photo at the top. 

Jack (pointing to Nathan's nipple in the bathtub): Is that your belly button?
Nathan: No.  Those are my dots.

On a separate occasion, Nathan came out of the bathroom grabbing his testicles and asked, "Mom, what's in here?  My lungs?"


Maybe those boys are a little dangerous, at least to unaccustomed funny bones - especially when those boys travel in pairs.