Blake made out like a bandit, if there was any wondering out there. Next year, I may have to put a dollar amount as a cap on what people can spend on him, and anything above and beyond will go into his car fund. He will be able to buy a Lexus by the time he is eight.
We are having great fun and high emotion here in Billings. Seems like today was a culmination in lack of sleep, over-stimulation, and erratic schedules. It can only get better, I hope. The other night, as I put Blake down, I told him that the ONLY reason he could come get me was if he pooped (he tends to just stew in it, and when I storm in ticked that he's not sleeping yet, I'm met with a waft of foulness that would make your eyes water).
The kid pooped FOUR TIMES. Four! In an effort to stall going to bed! He would kneel on the floor and put both hands on the wall, then squeeze out another dookie just as soon as I would leave the room. I know this because I walked in on him doing it. Finally, fearful the next one would be a diaper full of blood, I told him to STOP POOPING. Poor kid doesn't know what to think.
He's been copying Papaw, saying, "That's what I'm talking about!" at both appropriate and wildly random times. He also loves to play with Mason, but has learned the hard way that Smith is too delicate for Blake's rough & tumble. In fact, I have decided that God played a funny, and I got the child that should be Wesley Womack's. Blake is pretty much just the way I remember Wes. He wasn't hostile or intentionally hurtful, usually. Mostly, he was completely unaware that his actions were not fun for me or my sisters or our cousins. He'd get so carried away by how much fun HE was having that our tears or cries of dismay rarely slowed him down.
Blake will take Mason in the super-coupe and run him up and down the hall, caroming off the walls, then leave him at the end of the hall and turn the light off. We'll hear Mase down there just laughing, then see Blake running out. We're having to remind him regularly NOT TO LEAVE THE BABY ALONE. Mason's socks will be black by the end of the night, a result of being swept up and down concrete floors at high speeds.
We're having a little cabin fever, and I hope to get Blake and leave the house for a big chunk of time tomorrow, both for a break for us, and to give my mom just a bit of rest. Between the candy he's able to find and consume and the hot chocolate he's beeing drinking in steady supply, my son is thisclose to a sugar coma. The lead up to a sugar coma? Sugar highs. He's now on a diet of bread and water, with some cheese if he's good.
I must vacate the office now, as it's one of the few spots that the twins can sleep. We're looking forward to getting home and being back on track again...one of these days!
3 comments:
well-stewing in poo is a lot better that climbing closet shelves to attempt changing yourself at the age of two. yes--lizabeth has done this twice this week. Once on Christmas Day, just as the turkey needed to come out of the oven, the potatoes needed to be mashed and all the last minute preparations finsihed. Poo stains ALL over the carpet. Then, she did it again today. She is very, very sneaky as I was just down the hall and didn't hear a thing--I thought she was sleeping like a little angel. Remember the time Blue poopled all over the Hoffman house? (maybe you didn't live with us then)--well it looks like that in her room. Nice.
I may never have children. Thank you for ruining the vision, ladies.
Poop is so cool, if for nothing else than the fact that it makes for rock solid dinner table (and apparently, blog) conversation.
Janelle, you're missing out.
Think of the possibilities - timeless treasures of oratory masterpieces that transcend generation gaps.
From corn to pointed to squishy to hot pepper poopies, haiku to limericks, science to fiction and everything in between, glorious literary bliss.
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