True personality?

Lyla has been screaming at us a lot lately for what she perceives are ways we've wronged her.  That photo is a rare exception.  Either she's in a terrible phase of toddler bossiness, or her true personality has finally settled in.  She's still a lovely girl--as long as she's getting her way.

In other news, chocolate milk seems to bring out Rowan's paranoia.

Baseballer

Here, now you can make your very own flipbook of a pre-MLB Rowan. 

Overtired

Had pizza delivered and she wanted eggs instead.  Early bedtime followed.

Puzzle

After we read stories, Lyla gets to play quietly in her room for 10 minutes before we turn off the lights for good.  Or 20 minutes.  Sometimes we forget about her.

She's been doing dinosaur puzzles, and no matter what time I enter the room to finally get her to bed, she has just begun a puzzle.  Then I need to figure out whether to battle her over the fact that now it's definitely bedtime, or wimp out and let her muddle her way through the puzzle.  And it's serious muddling.  Suspiciously, she becomes putzy when she knows it's the last puzzle before lights-out.

Tonight I distracted her and then surreptitiously added pieces to the puzzle.  "Lyla, there's a unicorn in your closet!" Four edge pieces while she looked.

"Daddy.  There's no unicorn."

"Just kidding.  Do your puzzle."

A minute later: "Lyla, can you go look at the carpeting in my room and come back and tell me what color it is?"

"Um, sure."

Edge piece, edge piece, triceratops horns go there, big tree thing--let's see, oh got it--and a pterodactyl covering half the sun, corner piece...little footsteps returning.  "White, Daddy."

"White-ish.  Here, you have three pieces left."

Crunchy

We had parent night until 9:30, and Julie and the kids were all asleep by the time I got home.  So now I'm sitting here eating Fritos and trying to settle down after an evening of being "on" for the first time since mid-June.  Poor, poor me!  Crunch crunch crunch.

I'm teaching a senior creative writing course, and I can't decide if I should tell them about the blog.  I feel like I'd have to first re-read everything and then delete the embarrassing parts and swear words, like yesterday when I discussed Rowan taking a shit.  Edit it to read "defecate" or "squirt dookie from his dookie hole."  I'm tired.

Didn't see Rowan at all today and only saw Lyla briefly when she woke up right as I was leaving.  No photos.  Don't even know if Rowan went poopy in the poopy pot again.  Hey look, it's Al Franken!

We toured Thomson Reuters today because [details you don't care about] and Franken showed up seemingly randomly at the end to talk to us about [more details you don't care about].  Pretty cool, but rather than the meandering talking points, he could've just told us we were good enough, smart enough, and doggone it people like us. 

My Fritos are gone, so I'm going to bed.

The shit

Today Rowan made his first ever solid contribution to a toilet and got paraded around daycare like the man of the hour.  At pickup time, I headed to Lyla's room first, and she saw me and immediately jumped up and down and told me the exciting news.  Imagine taking your first civilized shit and then thinking, man, I gotta go tell my sister about this!

A teacher also helped him leave Julie a voicemail.  I'm too lazy to figure out how to upload it, but picture the highest voice in America saying "I pooped in da potty!"

Fall

Summer's over.  I go back to work tomorrow: a week of workshops followed by school starting next Tuesday.  I'm cool with it; I'm ready.

"It's a appo tuck, Daddy."

Okay, I'm not ready.

Impending flush

Pretty legit way to eat breakfast.  You do see, though, that Rowan can't reach his milk.

"Daddy, I tan't weach mah miwk."

"You can't, huh?"

"Tan you det it for me?"

I give him the look.

"Peez?"

So I get it for him, reinforcing the idea he has that I am his lifelong personal servant.  It's cool, though, because he's a couple weeks away from moving up a room in daycare.  He's headed to the Monkey Room, where they have more toilets per capita than any other room in the building.  It's where shitting your pants every day becomes socially awkward for the first time.  I predict by October he'll want to do everything by himself and this baby of the family mentality will get flushed.

Sheep

Eating.  You can see Daisy there, waiting for the inevitable spill.

The woman from the State Fair emailed me again, asking for my address so she could send the kids some sheep after the fair ends.  I responded that it wasn't necessary, but that the kids would scold me mightily if they ever found out I declined sheep.

Hopefully she meant stuffed sheep.

Grand Theft Juice Box

That's the Little Farm Hands exhibit at the Minnesota State Fair.  We've been there before:

That's last year.  Oh, and here, before Rowan was born:


So anyway, without getting into too many of the exhibit specifics, the kids get a free treat at the end for the "work" they've done--juice box, whatever.  Except there's a sign that says something to the effect that treats are only for kids ages 3-12.  No exceptions!  It's one of those nonsensical signs that you'd expect a father of a 2.5-year-old to prudently ignore, right?  Well, I did.  See, by that point Rowan was running behind Lyla toward the treats, and suddenly they were headed out of the place, juice boxes in hand.  Below is the email I later sent to the exhibit's coordinator.  In it, you'll see what happened next.

Hi _________________ -

I saw the sign too late in the Little Farm Hands marketplace that indicated only children age 3 and higher were eligible for a treat.  My daughter is almost 5, and my son turns 3 in January.  He walks and talks in full sentences and follows his sister everywhere.  Perhaps you can see where this is going. 

In not my proudest moment, I lied to your worker as my son walked by with a juice box from your marketplace.  "Sir, is he 3?" to which I responded, "He sure is."  She literally shouted after me: "Actually, he is NOT 3!" 

I'll own up to my part in it: I ignored your sign and lied to your volunteer.  I am guilty of juice box theft.  Seriously, say the word and I'll mail you a check.  But it bothers me that your workers helped my young son get his apron tied on, offered to take his picture, got his bucket loaded with eggs and corn, watched as he capably dug a hole for the seed, picked the apple, and then put everything back--a full participant in Little Farm Hands--but then whoa, buddy, no treat for you.  I understand that some parents probably try to abuse the freebies at your exhibit, but good grief.  Why put your workers in the position of feeling like they have to strong-arm the juice boxes out of the hands of toddlers? 

Please put up a sign at the beginning of the exhibit warning parents of this strict, inflexible rule.  Or don't let the under-3-year-olds do any of it--no apron, etc.  Or change the rule.  Thanks for your time.

Dan

The response she emailed me was perfect, basically that it was clearly an overzealous volunteer, she was sorry it happened, and so forth.  I harbor no ill will, and I think everyone should take their toddlers to this exhibit; it's fun, educational, and free.  I'll definitely take the kids again next year and think back to when I was an accomplice to grand theft juice box and contributed to the delinquency of a minor.  Next year won't be as thrilling, however, since Rowan will finally be of age. 

Hilarious pun!

Just a little light playing.

Like they do on the Discovery Channel

Lyla described the pictures to Rowan.  "And he's eating popcorn, and she's in her sleeping bag, and they're reading a book, and she's taking a bath, and they're making love."

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!

I asked her to clarify.

"They're making love."

"Who!?"

"The horses."

"How can you tell they're, uh, doing what you say they're doing?"

"The hearts."

"Got it."

Milkshake

Took the kids to Snuffy's Malt Shop after Choo Choo Bob's.  All I wanted was a milkshake, but I wasn't about to destroy the kids' appetites by mentioning it.  I figured, if they eat a mildly respectable percentage of their food, we'll get dessert.  Then they stopped eating.  I was like, "EAT!" and they were like:

So it never happened.  No shake.  Damn kids.

Here are a few random pics from the Dunes:

That's supposed to be a fish.  Julie wouldn't let Lyla near it.

My uncle Jim coming back from sailing with Rowan.  They found a half-deflated birthday balloon floating in the water, which Rowan thought was a message from God.

Bury Rowan in the sand, and nature becomes your babysitter for an hour.

That's the bottom flight of stairs to get up to the cabin.  I always mean to count the stairs, but then my brain starts wheezing halfway up.

With Rowan in the kayak.  Badass farmer tan.

Hucking a ball.  In another post I'll explain how excited I am that the boy appears to be right-handed.

Tomorrow's a daycare day.  I'm headed to my classroom to assess the damage after new carpeting was put in.  I didn't exactly pack my room up according to the custodians' specifications, so I'm expecting everything is either cycloned all over the room or gone entirely.  And at some point tomorrow, I'm getting a milkshake.

Gullible

This was kind of mean, but in our defense, Lyla was an overtired howler monkey all day.

"Hey Lyla, did you know the tooth fairy stopped giving money and now gives only broccoli?"

"Just kidding!"

"Lyla, do you think we should give all your princesses to Rowan?"

"Just kidding!"

"Lyla, we're putting you to bed at 5:30 tonight."

"Just kidding!"

Gator

From Madison to Elk Mound, where Julie's parents live, Rowan was a terrible, terrible person.  Screaming, shrieking, the kid was inconsolable.  Horns grew out of his head and the tears boiled out of his eyes.

Then he rode Grandpa John's Gator, and that fixed everything.

He also unleashed a raging shit and got his diaper changed on said Gator.

And now we're home.  Finally.

One week later

We have all these parenting standards informed by countless discussions, occasional research, and, we like to think, an overall sense of decency.  But then after one week of vacation, we practically qualify for our own show on TLC.

"WAAAAAAAAH!"

"Give him the donut!"

"But that's his last shirt!"

"Just take it off!  Give him the donut!"

"WAAAAAAAAH!"

"Put a towel on him or something!  And get that bowl over there!  That one!  Just dump out the Apple Jacks!"

"Seriously!?"

"WAAAAAAAAH!"

Time to go home.

Almost over...

Good sky again.

We're headed home tomorrow.  Actually not home; we're stopping in Madison at a hotel.  Couldn't bear the thought of eleventy-mizillion straight hours in the car.

Day after day without a nap, the kids are slowly unraveling.

That's a five minute nap Lyla squeezed into the car ride from the hotel to the cabin.  Tomorrow in the car my guess is they'll both either sleep, whine/cry, or watch Rapunzel.  Probably all of the above, all at the same time.

Double bogey

My grandma's husband Merle golfs three times a week.  Julie and I have golfed three times total (combined), so we were a little nervous to insert ourselves into his round yesterday.  Then again, we got four hours away from the kids, so the accompanying feelings of glee ultimately squashed every speck of golf anxiety.

Plus, she looks like she knows what she's doing:

Julie and I were pretty evenly matched, playing best ball while Merle played through.  Usually each time we took a shot, one of us hit it far and/or accurately enough to give the illusion of semi-competence.  I can definitely see why people golf, though if I continue doing it, I hope I remain content to merely hit the ball straight without obsessing over everything that proper golfers obsess about. 

Twenty years from now, Julie and I will belong to some suburban golf organization and have golf friends and our own clubs.  We'll talk golf, reminiscing about tough lies and the time that drive hit a bird right out of the sky.  Hopefully I'll be only mildly embarrassed about my 100 handicap.

Bogey

Here's the sunset from the cabin deck.

I'm not much of a photographer, but if you zoom in, you can see Chicago in the background. 

Wind and autumnal temperatures kept us off the beach today.  Luckily we found a mall with a sweet mini-golf course right next to the JC Penney.  Black lights and everything.  While there we learned that our kids totally suck at mini-golf.  And Rowan cheats.

With penalties, he finished 7,319 strokes over par.  I had to get a second pencil.

Nap failed

Looked like rain today, so we took a break from the beach and went to a discovery/play center thing I found on the World Wide Web of Internets.  The place had a bunch of different toddlerish rooms, like a giant play structure.

There was also a dress-up area and a playing house area.

That's face-paint on him.  There was an area for that, too.  Also, trains.  Rowan got majorly in the zone.

Back at the cabin:

Actually, before we headed to the cabin, we had an epic nap failure at our hotel.  Our hotel rooms are right next to a little sitting room, so Julie and I were both in there while the children slept with the door open a crack.  Suddenly Julie's ears pricked up, and she went to check on them and found Rowan pulling all the kleenix out of the bathroom.  One of those caught-red-handed, shit-eating grins on his face.  Naptime went downhill from there.  Then, bizarrely, the kids behaved until we put them to bed at 9:00.  Tomorrow, we'll pay.