Mine mine mine, all mine

translation please?

So, I lied. I didn't take a lot of pictures last weekend at the park, because I forgot my camera.

So, to give you your weekly Dose of Drew, I will include an older picture that I have never posted because it was residing in the digital camera until just recently:

This is Drew and our greyhound, Simon. This is Drew's version of a hug - he tilts his head, squats slightly and dips down until his face is...juuuuust...baaarely...touching the hug target. There are no arms involved in his hugging - he wants to be able to make a quick getaway.

I have decided that our son is not attempting to speak English. Rather, he is speaking Ewokese.

Let me give you an example. This is a sentence I heard uttered by Drew this morning while he was pretending to talk on my cell phone:

"Eee kay dee! Blag play dee doh? Dee doh! Doh! Doh! (this may be an offshoot of Ewokese - it sounds rather Homer Simpson-esque) Eee kay dee! See dee dee bay. Dah bee bee day. (I sense a pattern here) No. No! (disagreeing with your imaginary phone friend - has to be a sign of increasing independence, right? not psychosis.) Bay. Eee. Sen day row? Bye bye!"

If anybody understands any part of this, feel free to clue me in. (I got the "bye-bye" part...thanks.)

punkbaby

If you're not doing everything possible to ensure that you have a large batch of potentially embarrassing photos to show your child's future mates, then you're not doing your job.

I'm really glad that Drew enjoys bathtime so much, because we've had to bathe him every day this week.

Apparently, he and some other miscreants at daycare have decided that rolling around in dirt is a fun way to pass the time. His teacher, Miss Shannon, said that there's a specific dirt pile underneath a tree in the play yard to which he is particularly drawn.

"What does he do with this dirt?" I ask. "Because it's everywhere, including up his nose." (I wasn't complaining; I don't care if he comes home dirty as long as he has a good time. I was just curious.)

"Well, he really likes to just scoop up a big handful of it and look at it," she said. "Oh, and sometimes throw it."

Hey, he's a budding geologist.  No, really. OK, shut up. So my son plays with dirt.

Other than that, he's quite clean:

He even brushes his teeth all by himself!

This weekend, we're going to Kids' Planet with a Christian parents group we belong to. I'll make sure to take lots of pictures to post.

time for snippage?

So we're driving home from work yesterday and, for some reason, the topic of having more children came up.

Now, I don't want to say that Charles is firmly opposed to the idea of one day bearing a sibling for Drew, but...well...OK. He's firmly opposed to it. There's really just no other way to say it.

Me, strangely enough, I'm not completely not opposed to it, if you know what I mean. I always thought that, if I ever had children, I would want to have two. No more, no less. Two boys, two girls, one of each...it didn't matter. But now...

I'm realizing how this sounds, and imagining how one day Drew will tell his therapist, "After me, they decided they didn't want any more children..." but it's not that, really.  In fact, it's kind of the opposite.

Drew is really such a marvelous child that I simply can't picture another child being quite as good. I think it may just be a ginormous letdown, frankly, and wouldn't that be good for several more years of therapy?

I mention this to Charles, who responds enthusiastically, glad to see I'm leaning his way on the two kids vs. only child dilemma.

"But I'm not, like, 100 percent sure yet," I caution him. "I'm only at about 90 percent. I still may decide I want another, so, don't go getting yourself snipped right away or anything crazy like that."

"Wait a minute," Charles retorts. "Who said I'm the one getting snipped? When did we decide this?"

"Well, duh," I say. "One of us has to."

"Why not you?"

"Because it's going to be you.  So therefore, I don't need to."

"Logically, that makes sense. But wait...no it doesn't. That's still assuming that I'm the one getting snipped."

"Look, let's do it this way. If we haven't decided to have another child by the time I'm 39, in three years, then one of us will get snipped."

"OK."

"And I think that 'one of us' should be you."

"I'm not really comfortable discussing this."

"Discussing what? Not having more children?"

"No, discussing anything where the words "snip" and "my private parts" are in the same sentence."

Later that evening, however...

We're sitting at the table eating dinner. Drew is in his new booster seat, which he adores. He is picking up pieces of carrot and squash, stuffing them into his mouth, blowing them out on to the table (once they've disintegrated into a mushy pulp) and then, in a grand gesture worthy of royalty, sweeping the gelatinous mess onto the freshly mopped floor.

Then he begins to struggle against the booster seat restraints, pointing at the floor and grunting.

"Are you ready to get down?" I ask, reaching for him.

"NO!" screams he, clutching the sides of his booster. "NO NO NO NO NO!"

"Oooookaaaay," I say. "No problem, mister."

Squirm, grunt, struggle, point. More grunting. Whine whine whine.

"Drew. Do you want to get down now?"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"You want to stay and eat?"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" (hurling plate, fork and cup to the floor in rapid succession)

"Pardon me," says Charles. "I think I need to make an appointment for some snippage."

mercurial twos

First, check out this incredible essay "The Perversity of Diversity" by LaShawn Barber.  She's one of my favorite bloggers.

I know I haven't posted in a while - no doubt all three of my faithful readers (hi, Mom!) have been wondering what happened to me.

Well, let's see. I've been working, trying to encourage my son eat something besides sliced bread, trying to get my husband to mow the lawn, procrastinating doing the laundry, trying to find clean underwear, going to church, planning Drew's second birthday party, watching (and getting hooked on) Hell's Kitchen (Chef Ramsay can light my fire any day...oh, doh, now my husband's gonna stop watching it with me), trying to find a new swimsuit that doesn't suck and attempting to find recipes for the 40 pounds of zucchini I now have in my freezer.

That's pretty much it.

One day, Drew loves me and can't get enough of me. The next day, he's indifferent. The next day, he actively dislikes my presence. The next, he doesn't want me to leave his side.  The next, he's not so keen on me but has decided Dad is king of all.

This, I am assured, is perfectly normal behavior for an almost-two-year-old.

I say, my almost-two-year-old and a paranoid schizophrenic have a lot in common.