Annoying

G*ess which le**ers on my keyboard don'* work. Did yo* g*ess? Clever yo*.

Be back when *his incredibly annoying *roblem is fixed.

What Matters

A. just took the children up to the ram pasture to cut cane poles from the bamboo growing there. He wanted to take them fishing and realized he left his fishing pole in Mr. Jason's boat last week. No worries, kids. We have plenty of fishing line and bamboo. Daddy can fix anything.

When A. comes home (or, more painfully, first wakes up in the morning), it isn't more than five minutes before Cubby is demanding Daddy Monster. Which means the children race hysterically around the house, screaming with laughter, while A. lumbers after them, moaning like a mummy and making ineffectual lunges for them. It's probably the most popular game in our house right now.

A. has a set of boxing gloves from when he took boxing lessons a few years ago. He gives one to Cubby and one to Charlie and they tag team him, boxing one-handed and landing blows with impunity while he yells in mock helplessness and falls to the floor.

The MiL was reading a book a little while ago entitled, Do Fathers Matter? What Science Is Telling Us About the Parent We've Overlooked, by Paul Raeburn. I didn't read the book, because I don't need the science to tell me what is obvious in my own house.

Do fathers matter? Unquestionably.

A Reputation To Live Up To

After dinner this evening, I remained in the kitchen to wash dishes and blanch green beans for freezing*. A. was refereeing the after-dinner revelry in the living room. Tonight's revelry seemed to be awfully scream-y, in a slightly hysterical way, but since there was a responsible adult present in the living room, I ignored the noise and carried on.

A. came in the kitchen after awhile and asked me if something was wrong with Charlie today.

"Not that I know of," I said. "Why?"

"He just keeps having fits. Over really irrational things, like a person sitting on a couch cushion."

"He's two," I said. "He has irrational fits all day. That's why they're called the Terrible Twos."

It's cute how innocent A. still is, isn't it?

* A paltry two quart bags. It's not going to sustain us through a long winter or anything, but I suppose it's better than nothing.

A.P.D.--The Sleeping In Edition

Charlie tried to convince me at 4:10 this morning that it was time to get up. I strongly disagreed (my internal response was something along the lines of, "HELL NO") and then spent the next hour getting him back to sleep*. As I was lying there in my bed, wide awake and waiting for his next escape attempt, I reflected on how drastically my notion of "sleeping in" has changed recently.

In college, sleeping in meant 10 p.m.

When I worked and got up at 6 a.m., sleeping in meant 9 a.m.

When I had my first kid, who slept until at least seven most mornings, sleeping in meant 8 a.m.

And now? Now if Charlie sleeps until 6 a.m., I feel as if I've won the lottery. And on the banner mornings when A. gets up with Charlie, I indulge myself by staying in bed until 7 a.m.

Oh, the luxury.

And now it's your turn, my lovelies. What time do you habitually wake up and what do you consider sleeping in?

* He did eventually go back to sleep around 5 a.m. And then woke up for the day at 6:10 a.m. Super.

Left Behind

A. got up with Charlie this morning and hauled him downstairs. At 5:15 a.m.

Harsh, Charlie. Way harsh.

When I came down two hours later, Charlie was demanding "for-eh." That's the forest, obviously (or, okay, not obviously unless you're fluent in Charlie-speak, which no one really is). A. explained to Charlie that they couldn't go to the forest because he (A.) had to go to work. Charlie wasn't pleased.

So I started thinking, trying to come up with a place that I could take Cubby and Charlie later that would satisfy their lust for forest adventures while not breaking my pregnant back due to having to hike miles and carry a thirty-pound toddler half the distance.

This is when I realized something: My children have far surpassed me in adventurousness. There was literally nowhere I could think of going that wouldn't result in them plunging into creeks and up and down gully banks in pursuit of adventure. I can't keep up with my two-year-old and four-year-old.

That didn't take long.

We ended up going down to the beach, where they played an involved game of pirate ship and I sat in a chair. It's not the forest, but it works for me.

All Grown Up

Big day today for Charlie: It's his first time going fishing with Mr. Jason in his boat. Although Charlie has been billing himself as a big boy for some time now (and getting increasingly irritable and insistent in correcting those people--mostly Cubby--who still call him a baby), I think you can't really call yourself a big boy in this family until you go fishing on Mr. Jason's boat.

So Mr. Jason's boat is currently filled with A., Cubby, and Charlie. God help Mr. Jason.

And I am currently sitting in an empty, quiet house, gestating the next boy who will be demanding to go "FEE" ("fish" in Charlie-speak) with Mr. Jason in a few years.

Lucky Mr. Jason. And lucky me.

A Serious Design Flaw

To all those pajama designers who no doubt read this site regularly: What the hell is up with the long pants and short-sleeved top pajama sets? Why are these almost ubiquitous? Why can't I buy long sleeves AND long pants for my sons together? Their flailing little arms are forever escaping their covers and getting chilled. They can't be the only children to do this. Why is it so hard to get long-sleeved pajamas for them?

Although not quite so flail-y as my children, I also sleep in the conventional manner of legs under the covers, head out of the covers. This means the first part of me to get uncovered should I flip over, or maybe--ahem A.--experience some blanket theft, is my arms. I do not need long pants; I need long sleeves. So how come the pajama set combination of shorts and long-sleeved shirt is nearly impossible to find? Have I perhaps been sleeping upside-down all these years?

Do not even speak to me of the odd pajama combination of pants and a tank top. This makes no sense to me.

I may embark on a second career as a pajama designer myself, if only to fill this void in the market.