JJ enters room, wearing a green long-sleeved shirt from the morning and shorts just a few shades bluer than the green shirt, close enough that the eyes naturally squint.  He’s holding a kleenex to his chin.

Mama:  “JJ, you’re wearing shorts.”

JJ:  “Yep.”

Mama:  “Why?”

JJ:  “Cause it was quiet time.”

Abe comes trundling in the room, wearing his swimming trunks and lacking a shirt, carrying a kleenex.

Mama:  “Abe, you’re wearing your swimming trunks.”

Abe:  “Mama, owie!  I gotta scratchie!”

Mama:  “You have a little scratch?”

Abe, trying to stand on one foot while holding the other up to show it off:  “SCRATCHIE!”

JJ:  “No, Mama, it’s a BIG scratch!”

Abe, smiling:  “I BLEEDING!!!”

JJ:  “He’s bleeding a lot!”

Abe:  “Yep!”  Puts both feet firmly on the floor and trundles off.

JJ’s kleenex was never explained.

How

Are these kids

Related?

Seriously.

“Muk!  Meema, Muk!”  (aka “Milk, mama, milk”)

Then,

“Cookies!  Cookies!” (a word he has NO problem pronouncing – not so shocking)

Then, my oh so efficient boy,

“Mookies!”

Why say them separately when they’re meant to be together?

I think he’s on to something. 

And whatever model I currently have, I’m ready to send back to the manufacturers.  I want to downgrade!  I don’t want to be on the 3G network!

Right now he’s screaching in his crib.  Because he does not nap.  But he does wake up profoundly early so that when I’m trying to work out and have Me Time (I hear I’m entitled to that, but methinks I was misinformed), he gets to shove his learning table over to right.behind.me for me to trip on.  And for his brother to start laughing and then telling me stories, because he’s awake as well due to someone’s morning vocalizations.  I never knew just how irritated I could be when someone’s trying to talk to me at 6:25 while I’m walking away my pounds and trying to believe Lady Gaga & the Eurythmics who are telling me through my ear buds that everything will be okay if I just dance.

Abe screaches at me. Different from JJ, who just yelled at the world:  Oh, The Injustice of It All!  I must fling myself all about the room!  Abe is very deliberate:  Oh, The Injustice of You!  I must fling myself!  At YOU!  Over!  And Over!

Note:  he knows how to use childlocks.  As evidenced by my glasses lying on the bathroom floor.  Twisted so that one of the ear piece holdy things (can you tell I haven’t slept much? and have been yelled at a lot?) is now perpedicular.  True, they were some seven years old, and had lost a screw so they were held together by dental floss (three times stronger than regular string), but still, I would prefer to be the one to go Office Space on my eyewear.

And yet, he charms everyone in public.  Flirting.  Flashing the dimples.  Pretending to be shy.  Playing hide and seek.  He jumped into the arms of a friend while we were at the library, laid his head on her shoulder, and she had to walk us to the car because he wouldn’t let her put him down.  We are stopped Every.Time. at the store by someone exclaiming how cute he is.  And he looks at me.  And I look at him.  We both know the truth:  one shriek away from a box to Abu Dhabi.

So for right now I’m treating him as any person treats a Bad Cat (no, Aunt Faye, not by shaking my finger and saying, “Bad Cat” in a “firm” tone which leads the kittens to snicker or stare with the You Stupid Human Stare of Scorn).  Two words.

Squirt.

Bottle.

Or as JJ says, “Hey, Mama, why you have a gun?”

Oooh, somebody else’s gadget.

Ooooh, chatty (really, Hubby is chatty.  Some of y’all know; most of the world, notsomuch.).

Ooooh, pacing while being chatty with somebody else’s gadget.

Let’s hope he also picks up the Hubby’s mad Iron Chef skills  (or at least ability to watch countless hours of Iron Chef.  Thanksgiving Showdown was Big Fun.)

Enjoy.

“Bahy.”  [Wave]

But there were bits.  It wasn’t until I stopped cutting up his sandwiches (some due to him getting bigger, some due to me being lazy) that I noticed what was left:  crusts.  He would take even the smallest piece, eat off the “flesh” of the bread, and politely deposit the crust in his high chair sippy cup holder.  Lovely.  Of course, I could be nice and cut off his crusts ahead of time, but as hope springs eternal, I keep thinking one day he might accidentally let a little bit of crust cross his lips and realize that crusts are not in fact evil but quite digestable.

Last night, those hopes were dashed.

After about two weeks quarentine with Darth Vader children (enter deep breathing noises), I had an outing I could go to on my own:  Book Group!  Discussion!  With adults!  About a funny book!  At a coffee shop!  And nobody wheezing or whining!  So I was looking forward to it a bit . . . .

When I got home and was getting the debrief of the evening, Jason mentioned that Abe finished off the apples I gave him at dinner.  See, for some reason he decided he didn’t want to eat his cheese eggs and apples at dinner, apples I nicely cut up into little wedges for his little fists to grab and shove into his mouth, dripping apple juice down his arms, creating the sticky fruit monster to destroy all the clean surfaces I created this morning.  So I wasn’t so sad about the not eating dinner.  Of course, he chose to eat it a) after I left and 2) after he’d been released from his chair.  Helpful.

But Jason noticed an interesting phenomenon:  Abe wouldn’t finish eating his apple wedges.  He’s shove them in his mouth, wander around, and bring Jason bits that he decided weren’t worthy of digestion.  Do you know what bits these were?  Oh yes:  the apple peels.

It gets better.

Jason asked me if Abe had been doing this before.  I said I didn’t think so.  He asked if Judah cleaned up Abe’s messes.  I said rarely.  Jason opened the garbage can to show me what he saw when went to throw away the Rejected Bits:  apple peels stuck to the top of the garbage can.

Lovely.

And so I have one of Those Kids.  I’d better start cutting of his clothing tags and getting rid of the cute but potentially itchy sweaters now.  Or maybe I could just invest in a really good, grow-with-you Bubble.

Instead of climbing up the stairs only to scream because they don’t want to slide down . . .

Instead of throwing their pacifiers out of their crib and then screaming about how the land is in a pacifier famine, woe to the masses . . .

Instead of trying to channel their inner Clinton and Stacy by throwing all of the nicely-folded sweaters out of the bottom of their mother’s dresser drawers . . .

Instead of yowling for a banana and then shrieking to high heaven because the banana broke and obviously has lost its nutritional value and deliciously sweet banana flavor . . .

They could be helpful.

Like yowling for food, and then when given sliced apples and dried cranberries in a bowl (because one doesn’t really like apples but does like dried cranberries and sometimes forgets that one doesn’t like apples and actually eats them when they are surrounded by something they like such as dried cranberries), calmly picking out the apples, walking to the garbage can, and throwing them away.

You know, helpful.

I was just talkin’ to your Granddaddy on the phone.  He called to talk to you, but you were rather confused by the melodious tones coming from my new phone (yes, we’re all getting adjusted to the slimness as well as the elective reception – Ma has bad phone karma – sigh), so he chatted with me instead.

“So are you going to write a Happy Birthday entry on your blog?”

“I’m uploading photos so that I can download photos and then link to photos.”

“Well, I always enjoy reading those entries.”

“Yeah, since they’re like the *only* thing I write on this blog?”

“Well, yes.” 

Yes, one year ago today I was sitting in a really comfy bed watching the Food Network staring out at my nice view and glancing down at my slumbering bundle of cuddliness.

No longer wondering if you were going to be a ginormous baby or like those creatures from the “Alien” movies (cause, man, you did flips), but pondering who this small bebe bundle named Abel Anders would be.  I had some inklings:  you seemed to dig showers, responded to your brother’s voice (but really, who doesn’t), loved your dad’s touch, and would not come out (even though my body was letting you know that your lease was up) until you were darn good and ready.

That dark hair, boy:  where did you hide it?  Some babies lose all their hair and it comes in another color.  You shiftily shed it so that none of us noticed until one day – hey, he’s blonde!

So today marks your first trip around the sun:  how did you enjoy it?  Was it everything you hoped for and more?  I know it was for me.

Except for today.  Today I had Grand Plans.  Plans that entailed us having a wonderful family outing to a great family-fun type place and enjoying each other’s company and sunshine and rainbows and fuzzy little bunnies trailing behind us.

But y’all didn’t seem to get that message that everyone should be in the Best Of Shape.  Your pappy popped an ear drum.  Your brother seems to be exploring the deeper realms of his emotional range focusing mostly on the melancholy side.  And you, well, you picked up a lovely little stomach bug that likes to help you return the edible funds we deposit in your belly (i.e. you’ve been spewing).  Finally the bug has moved out, but not before convincing you that solid food is bad, nursing is GREAT, and losing weight before your Well Child appointment is a fantastic idea.  Dad weighed you last night, and dude, we’re not gonna be able to turn your carseat around until you start packing on the pounds.  Don’t make me start whipping you up raw egg high calorie weight lifter shakes:  I prefer to use my blender for the fruits cause they’re so much prettier.

Instead today we all went to the DMV.  Wee!  To get tags for Mama’s new-to-her car so that people won’t keep staring at her with the “stupid Washington driver” stare – mean Oregonians.  So you and your brother could be well behaved until our number was called and then we had to fill out a form and then the person helping us decided to go on break but not tell us so that you and your brother could start falling apart while your father stood and stood and stood until finally someone mentioned that she went on break and maybe she could help us in a bit.  Let’s just say it’s amazing how many teeny tiny pieces a Kashi granola bar can be broken into when trying to distract small people for the longest period of time.

And then we went to the phone store.  Wee!  To pick Ma up a phone that had not been banged into oblivion as well as a phone that might hold a signal longer than it takes to say “hold on, I gotta go plug in the phone before it di. . . ” click.  And graciously you and your brother decided Ma needed to get her workout in, so you took on the role as personal trainer, grabbing the bluetooth headsets off the wall while your brother tackled the higher perched phones.  Expensive phones.  Like Iphones.  Which one of them now contains pictures of my butt because Ma didn’t turn around when someone yelled, “Say cheese!”

And then we went to a good place.  A happy place.  A place full of your friend:  carbs.  Your Pappy said, “You really want to go there?” to which I exclaimed, “BREAD!  They have BREAD!  Little A Loves Bread!”  One of the foods you deem acceptable to eat this week.  We went to the new Great Harvest Bread Company store.  Oh, walking in was simply heaven, but then to receive a free piece of warm-from-the-oven bread.  For all the troops.  As well as getting a coloring sheet for your brother to color to get a free giant cookie.  And then to come home with two loaves – one of cinnamon chip, one of whole wheat apple crunch – ?!!!?  Well, that *is* pure goodness.

We came home.  You napped.  Not well.  You pooped.  And leaked.  And screamed.  And woke your brother up.  So we all loaded back into the car to go to your other home, a.k.a. Freddies, so that JJ could pick out a toy for you to have, a.k.a. he can play with while you play with the packaging.

Since you’ve been on an odd fast (you really should read the resources from our faith gathering, because your fasting is a bit on the wonky, and not-so-spiritual-but-rather-moody, side), I wasn’t quite sure what to give you as celebratory fodder (i.e. cake).  Your brother had carrot cake muffins with cream cheese frosting that powered him on through to the next year:  sugar.high.  I didn’t feel like dealing with that if you weren’t going to keep my birthday offering to you, so instead I thought of things you like:  bananas.  oatmeal.  cookies.  Why not put them all together?  I did.  And you enjoyed.

Then we had to give the toy a test drive.  And boy howdy, you still dig the water, Little Man.

Really.

I’m not kidding.

Thanks for sharing the bath and the laughts with us, Half Pint.

Thanks for sharing your laughter and your joy and your love with us.  Most mornings your brother greets you with, “GMornin, Sunshine!  Nice to see you!  Have sweet dweams?”  You are my sunshine.  It’s truly been delightful to see you.  And I hope your sweet dreams continue on during your next trip around the sun.

I love you, son.

Love, Ma

Congrats:  you are officially 11 months old.  Past two hands.  On your way to a year.  (Only one more month of the jubblies:  woot!).  And man, kid:  you are a hoot.

I’ve always heard parents sharing how they pushed their first kids into things:  into eating solids, into crawling and walking quicker, into going to school sooner, into becoming the president of a country.  But the second kid?  Not so much.  Still wanna eat pureed sweet potatoes and wear your pull ups until you’re ten?  Enh:  it’s your choice.

I don’t think we had that choice with your older brother:  he kinda took off running and drags us along.  I think he might be yelling “Catch up!” if we could hear him, but he’s run so far ahead, and my ears are plugged into listening to Lynn Rossetto Kasper croon about caramelizing pears, so I’m in a bit of a daze.

I just forget.  The other day I realized that at this age your brother was toddling/walking/sliding down stairs.  You:  not so much.  But it doesn’t seem abnormal:  it seems like to see a person your size running around would just be odd.

You’ve started balancing, and it’s hilarious, to you and everyone around you.  Today you crawled up to me while I was sitting on the floor, sucked into my stinkin’ book (literary meth, I tell you:  why must it have come in from the library with only a two week checkout while the hubby is gone for one of those weeks?!!?) waiting to go pick your brother up from school (although if I had known that he’d come home covered in pink marker from having decorated the table with his most quiet compatriot Master Sears, and then proceed to dump his water bottle in his room, and tear his calendar off the wall, and play on the computer without permission, and watch tv without permission, and scatter both UNO and dominoes all over the floor, and throw tantrum after tantrum when told he had to pick them up, and take a tub of clothes in the garage and dump them all over the floor, and take you out into the garage, and strip off all his clothes, and then put a pair of pants and a pair of underwear in front of him saying that he was indeed dressed and try to go outside to pee, all between the time of 11:45 and 2:15, I might have just kept reading my book), you pulled yourself up on me, let go, stood, laughing and clapping.  Which made you fall over.  But then you threw your hands into the air and spun in a circle:  because hey – it’s great to be able to stand.

We have yet to find a carb you don’t like.  Correction:  we have yet to find a fruit and/or grain you don’t like.  Green items are usually met with a firm shake of the head back and forth.  And then turning red.  And then yelling.  But after watching your multimedia show, you submit to the greens.  Most of the time.  With the hopes that a multigrain piece of toast or a little swedish pancake may be lurking at the bottom of the bowl.

And you like toys.  You play with toys.  And finger games.  And peekaboo.  This is such a foreign concept to me.  For years I’ve wondered why I was supposed to know all the verses to the farmer and the dell:  was it just a trick to see how doofy parents will make themselves look?  But you like those songs.  They make you happy.  You have a favorite book of baby faces showing different emotions, and when we show you a certain face (known as “your friend”), you throw your arms up and spin.  Or you giggle.  Or you grab the book and flip it back and forth looking for the ever elusive friend.  Who is showing the emotion:  happy.

You also love to play peekaboo.  Today at the store, which is being torn up because the deli is getting a makeover, which for some reason meant that they had to move all the shelves in the health food section to line up against the deli as well as put other shelves in areas that were relatively empty and a nice breather from the constant barrage of “buy our product!   you know you want to!  be american!  CONSUME!”), you would see people, mostly in hard hats, and you would bury your face in your hands.  And then drop them.  And grin.  Of course, not every one *knew* that you were playing peekaboo and that their proper response was to drop everything and put on a dopey grin and exclaim very excitedly “There’s Little A!”, but if they noticed, they thought you were cute nonetheless.

Now, I have to let you know:  your lease on the jubblies is about to run out.  I think you have an inkling that something’s in the works, because all of a sudden you’ve decided you neeeeeeeed them.  Like your dad has fed you and I come home and pick you up and experience a face plant in my clavicle.  Or you just decide to confirm that there is something inside my shirt.  In a public place.  So everyone else can confirm as well:  I guess Hebrew law does say you need to have at least two witnesses.  Sorry, bub:  all good things must come to an end, as well as things that are really annoying (like experiencing clogged ducts, which I am right now, because see above for how pappy is out of town and brother is on a rampage and I am the Mother Martyr Supreme of All Christendom).

So please.  Keep balancing.  And reminding me that it’s so stinkin cool that you can balance.  And that sometimes that’s all we need to do.

That, and run to Dairy Queen for some sugar free Dilly Bars.  Yes, there’s two in the fridge, but me thinks that’s not going to be enough.

Love, Ma

Congrats: you are now two full hands of months – 10! That means you’ve been out of the womb room longer than you were in it – nice work. Some days I’ve wondered if you would make it this far, what with your brother’s enjoyment of playing steamroller and all. Really, how do younger siblings make it without incurring significant damage before they can fight back? I wonder if God uses a little stronger material for version 2.0s and beyond, or if He simply doubles the number of guardian angels on duty. Which, if they outnumber the ones alloted to your brother, means we have about a legion in this household alone.

If you will note in the above picture, you are not sleeping. Nope: the place of slumber has turned into a romper room for you and your brother. Which, honestly, I don’t mind when your naptime ends just as my need-to-lay-on-the-couch-and-watch-Rachael-Ray-be-productive-cause-I-got-nuthin-left time begins. But then you do things like this:

Aw, aren’t you sweet.

And your brother does things like this:

Yes, he’s sleeping. In a bed. In *MY* bed. On your pappy’s side. And no, that’s not JJ’s bunny. Or your bunny. Or hubby’s bunny. We’ll just leave it at that.

OR he’s doing this:

Let’s get a close up for those who have fuzzy eyeballs:

Yes, your brother is sleeping with his favorite thing in the world: LegoTableTVStarWarsGame. Huh? So one day I went to the mailbox, and two packages from amazon were sitting in our package slot. Two packages for me! I was shocked! And then bothered: did I accidentally order stuff that I put in my cart with the intention of holding off and ordering later but usually forgetting about it until it’s not on sale anymore and so I don’t need to buy it? Nope: your uncle Bubba sent us goodies – a pretty for the mama, and a pretty for the rest of y’all.

It has transformed our lives.

No longer do I hear the hum of "the wheels on the bus": I hear "the death march". Calls for "R2, where are you? I can’t hold on! I can’t hold on!" echo throughout the house. All objects can and should be used with "swoosh" noises. Which includes the legs of a lego table that JJ received from Gran and Granddaddy at Christmas (note the sleepless crib picture: they’re there).

So we have a lego table. And we have lego Star Wars. And it’s played on the TV. So now it’s LegoTableTVStarWarsGame. Easy peasy, eh? [Okay, so Star Wars isn't the only infectious thing in our household].

The other day it was sunny. Big deal, you might say. But oh, how it’s been gray and blecky outside. We haven’t been smoted like the rest of the country with high temps and the snow and high temps and snow, but the ceaseless gray does begin to wear one’s spirit down like in the swamps of sadness .

Sensing that it might not last, I quickly threw you into some Happy Sunny Day clothes and whipped y’all outside to document that winter may indeed come to an end.

Note the placement of the dog toy in your hand. And somehow Jacks lets you keep it, simply licking your face as if to say, "Please, puppy, gimme gimme gimme?"

You complied and decided instead to take your incredibly dexterous fingers and pick up teeny tiny, almost unnoticeable except to the naked eye of the 10-month old who could easily choke on things rocks.

Maybe you’ll grow up to be a rock biter (you have to go to about 4.00).

Okay, so here you might notice that you’re a bit drippy and that there’s a bonk on your noggin (apparently the guardian angel was taking an angelic fair trade organic coffee break). Your Gran might not have noticed this, but here – you’re flapping. Just like your mama did when she was your age.

Because on sunny days, you just have to flap.

You are my Sunshine Boy.

Love, Ma