Bigger, Badder, Soggier

What a difference a year makes!

Peapod was faster. She ran a smarter race.  The Esposo did not have to carry her on his shoulders at any time.  She passed kids.  She passed adults. She made me so proud it was almost embarrassing. She paced herself in the beginning and didn't turn on the turbo boosters till she had the finish line balloons in plain sight.  Yeah.

The Edge made it the whole way without a single Peanut Butter Bumper.

He slumped less in the jogging stroller as you can plainly see by comparing

Fig 1: Santa Barbara State Street Mile June, 2011 

... with Fig 2: Santa Barbara State Street Mile June, 2010.

See what a difference a year makes?

Plus this year, I did not stick myself even one time with the safety pins.

It rained.

The kids got medals.

We had brunch.

And our dog, Sapphira, turned 17 years old. Yes, really.

Happy birthday, you stinky, sweet old girl.

King of the Candles

I had a feeling he was going to be really good.  He'd been practicing all week.

The Edge turned 2 years old yesterday, and when it came time to blow out the candles on his birthday cake, baby boy brought down the house.

Yeeah.

Personally I think his big sister had a fair amount to do with his success, which was all about the preparation.

About ten days before the actual birthday party, we all explained that his birthday was coming up and that there would be a cake with candles on it, we would sing the "Happy Birthday" song and at the end of it, he was expected to blow out the candles.  

But Peapod took the prep to the next level with actual birthday drills.  These drills included the construction of a birthday "cake" with "candles." But more importantly, the drills included an audience, which was made up of every stuffed animal they could reasonably round up, every doll, every choo choo and every plastic Lego guy that still had a head.

Many of these drills also took place in picnic format on various bed comforters or decorative throws dragged in from other rooms of the house.  As the April 24th date drew nearer, the drills moved into the dreaded-but-effective two-a-day schedule familiar to any well-trained athlete.

As you can clearly see, it paid off.

Happy birthday, My Baby Boy.

Artistic Sweet Spot

Peapod has entered that preschool age -- that serendipitous artwork moment -- where most of the drawings and whoozinwhatsitz she creates are just so ridiculously sweet and cute that you want to keep them all.

Of course it has become a problem because I don't even have space for one extra fleece hoodie, let alone the eleventy-six masterpieces she generates at preschool and our kitchen table on a weekly basis.

My unsentimental yet practical solution is typically to photograph my favorites, keep them around for a few weeks, and then introduce them to the recycle bin.  You know, move it on through.

But every now and then something will crash past my practical exterior and into my soft, gushy heart.  It happened just last week with this one particular piece.  I discovered it when I carted The Edge into his room for a diaper change. 

There, propped up next to his little diaper caddy, she had left a beautiful, crayon-drawn picture of The Edge, wearing a striped shirt and shoes.  (Note:  if you look carefully, you will see that Peapod's artwork gives away The Edge's real name, as Peapod wrote it above the drawing of her brother.)

I set The Poopy Edge back down and took the picture to Peapod to ask about it.

"Can you tell me about this picture, Sweet Pea?"

"That's The Edge."  She stated matter-of-factly and with no sentimentality whatsoever.  "I drew it for my brother."

The next day I spent 20 extra minutes in Target, looking for push pins so I could hang the picture in The Edge's room, where I could look at for all eternity.  Or at least until Peapod draws an even better masterpiece of her brother.

Oh, and I changed The Edge's diaper, too, by the way.

Ski School, Now in Session

Well, the one year I leave The Esposo, Peapod and The Edge unsupervised for the annual trek to Lake Tahoe, this happens:

Her first time on skis!  GO PEAPOD GO!!!!

Needless to say, I was devastated that I was not there to witness it myself, but bursting with pride when I heard all about how well she did and how much she loved it.  In fact, the instructors said she was the first 4-year-old they could recall who did not complain once the entire time!  (I had the Esposo check to make sure he was taking home the right kid afterward.)  I can't wait to crush her out of the chutes ski with her next year!

And here's a still shot just for fun, and because I'm so bleepin' proud.
My baby's gettin' all growe'd up.

If you can't say anything nice...

I'm not sure where this quote falls out.

We had just picked up Chinese food from Egg Roll Express.  Now before you roll your eyes, let me tell you, this place is solid, and they nail all the Chinese-food basics that every American family needs.  Chow mein, cashew chicken, egg drop soup, bing, bing bing.  All solid.

So when we asked Peapod and The Edge, who had had Egg Roll Express many times before and gobbled it up like frat boys, "Who wants noodles?" (which was the vegetable chow mein), we expected an enthusiastic response.

We got it from Peapod, who jumped out of her chair and thrust her hand in the air.

From The Edge, however, we got something much more rude, yet somehow more priceless and indelible.

We got a catch-phrase.

"Blah.  No way!  Mee!"

Blah.

No way.

Me.

What that could possibly mean, coming from a 22 month old human being is mind boggling.  It's almost deep, I think.

All I know, is that we will be quoting those three words, in that order for years to come.

Then someday, when he decides he wants to marry some lucky fool, and asks if he can bring them home so we can meet this person, I will look up from my book, peer over my reading glasses and calmly reply:

"Blah.  No way.  Me!"

Jet Packs: Now at Target

I was futzing with the radio when an interesting question floated up from the backseat.

Peapod:  "Mom, do they sell jet packs at Target?"

Me: "What?"

Peapod: "Do they sell jet packs?  At Target?"

I have turned off the radio, as this demands my full attention.

Me:  "No, I don't think so, Sweet Pea."

Peapod:  "How do you know?"

Me:  "Well, uh... Jet packs are for, um, scientists.  NASA people.  Astronauts! You really can't just buy a jet pack."

Peapod:  "But Daddy saw one at the Rose Parade.  Where did that guy get one?"

Me:  "Um.  Not at Target, that's for sure." I have begun to lose composure at this point.

The Edge: "JePaaak!  JePaaak!"

Peapod: "Well if you see a jet pack at Target and it's a good price, will you get it for me?"

Me:  "You got it, Boo."

Fake Cats Re-Arranged My Tupperware Drawer

People who write books about raising kids:

1. No longer have toddlers or babies and therefore have time to write actual books.
2. Are smug.

Anyway, I listened to these people and put all my tupperware-like plastic food storage containers into one low drawer that I let Peapod and The Edge have access to. The idea, according to these books, is that you arrange a few drawers in your kitchen to have only "safe" items in them, and then let your kids do as they please. The theory is that these fussy small people won't go caveman on you, because you've put the rest of your far more interesting kitchen stuff behind toddler locks and electrified cow fence.

What these book authors don't talk about is how this little arrangement will drive you slowly insane.

Let me explain.

The Edge loves cats. Not only does he know every cat in the neighborhood, he can point out where every cat has been in the neighborhood, for roughly the past 6 days. He also likes to imitate cats, which has inspired his sister to do the same.

So now I have two fake cats, meowing and re-arranging my tupperware drawer. Let me assure you, it sounds much cuter than it actually is, especially when you are trying to unload the dishwasher.