It’s been sunny:  outside and in my soul.

I didn’t realize how not-sunny it had been.  I hadn’t felt right complaining about the weather.  It doesn’t do a whole lot of good, and we’ve had rainier, grayer seasons, I’m sure.  But once the sun hit, and smiling was more a reaction than a “hmm:  this situation requires a positive response:  c’mon, cheek muscles – you can’t be *that* atrophied”, I realized my solar tanks had dipped beyond low.

Life is a series of baby steps, daily baby steps, often til 4:00, just like Bob.  Because at 4:00, I only have one more hour of activities I am solely in charge of.  Which, now that it’s sunny, involves boys, the out-of-doors, and me throwing balls … lots of balls.

Abe is becoming oh-so-toddleresque.  We’ve removed the side of his crib, we’ve depacifieried him (a feat he’s still protesting), and he’s joined us at the table without a tray table separating us and his yogurt-saturated fingers.  His favorite thing to do is throw the kitchen rug out of the way, move the family heirloom child-sized rocking chair into the kitchen, stand on it, open the utensil drawer, and whack away at my sink with a seraded bread knife.  We’ve weaned him down mostly to spoons and butter knives: they leave fewer chinks.

He’s enjoying living into his boydom.  The other morning while I was working out (mind you, it’s like 6:30am, because We Love Mornings and Must Rise Early to Beat the Boys But They’re Competitive in Everything Including Waking Up), I heard a noise coming from behind the couch.  A liquidly noise.  A quick run to the back of the room revealed some pjs, a removed diaper, and a naked boy smiling as he peed on the carpet.  Delightful.  Right now he’s giggling while leaning on my chair, because as he leans, it gives him the support to fart.  Glorious.

JJ is a preschool boy all the way:  every stick is a weapon, every other boy has an imaginary light saber, every block building must be knocked down, and every free moment should be filled with building legos or playing MarioKart (WEEEEE!) or running around with his Lightning McQueen hooded towel, because he’s a SUPEr hero.  But there’s also the sweet moments of bringing his brother books to read or comforting me when another toy has broken and I wonder if I live in a house of destruction (I miss pretty, breakable things somedays.  Other days, when I’m cleaning, I don’t miss them so much).

“Why” is a frequently asked, frequently dreaded question.  “Why do I have to go to bed?” “Why do I have to make my bed?” “Why do you make that face when Abe eats yogurt with his hands?” “Why is that lady’s tummy so big?” “Why can’t I adjust my underwear standing here in the middle of the living room with other people around?”  I realized a while back that he really doesn’t want an answer:  often he knows the answer.  But in order to process, and oh, do we process in this house, he must ask questions.  Out loud.  All the time.  So, in proper parenting mumbo jumbo, I reflect things back to him.  “Why do you think?” or a shrug of the shoulders or a “Hmm:  interesting” often stops the “why” neverending teacups ride before it starts.

The Hubby got his Summer Preparedness on this weekend.  A mowed and weed-whacked lawn and fertilized lawn, a washed car, and a grilled meal were all enjoyed.  Boys threw balls, kicked balls, rolled balls, and played with chalk.  The clouds are rolling in even now, but I think I can maintain the Vitamin D glow for a few more days.  That, or I’m getting a portable Sun Lamp:  if you see me with a strange contraption mounted to my head, just nod and smile, nod and smile.

Daily Drivel