Take my children, please.

My sons are alive today at this moment because I’m a saint.  Ok, I might be exaggerating a little but not by much.

Tornado E is on the throttle taking a supervillan’s pleasure in antagonizing the hell out of Tornado S.  Tornado S retaliates by either hitting or screaming or both.  This has been going on for several days, perhaps even weeks.  Then today the screaming started before 7am.  Then while I was feeding Tornado A his mid-morning meal, the boys that would be an absolutely awesome idea to wash their hair with hand soap.  And to make matters even more fun, Tornado S poured a water bottle filled with water onto the kitchen floor.

I wanted to scream.  I wanted to beat.  I wanted to send everyone to time out for hours.

Instead, I placed a sleeping Tornado A in his bassinet.  I told Tornado E to figure out how he was going to get soap out of his hair.  I gave Tornado S a rag to dry up the water.

But I fear I’m losing control.  I have to repeat myself several times to get them to do what I ask.  Tornado E is now name calling.  Tornado S cries and screeches when things don’t go his way.  It’s like pulling teeth to get them to pick up their toys or get ready for bed.

I’m not sure if this is a phase.  But I’ve been telling everyone it is.  I don’t know if they’re just testing the lines.  I don’t know if this has something to do with having a new baby in the house.  I don’t know if this has to do with their allergies acting up.

I do think if I started cracking down, they would be in time out all the time.  Which might have to be done.  And I wonder if I spent more time with them having fun that they wouldn’t act out so much.  But I spend Tornado A’s nap time trying to get them to clean and yelling at them as they pick on each other.  I just hate the yelling all the time.


The Renaming

Tornado E: I think I want to name Tornado S.

Me: What?

Tornado E: I want to name Tornado S.

Me: He already has a name.  It’s Tornado S.

Tornado E: He needs a new name.  I’m going to call him Falleif.

Me: What?  No.

Tornado E: Falleif!  Let’s play cars.

Me: We’re not naming your brother Falleif.

Tornado E: Falleif, do you want juice?

Me: Tornado S, do you want juice.

Tornado S: Please juice!

Me: See.  He’s name is Tornado S.

Tornado E: I’m still going to call him Falleif.

Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

Was that supposed to be a secret?

Ever have one of those moments when you know you just might have gone too far.  Or maybe it’s just me because I’m always chewing on my foot.  When I was young, I would cross that line and look back a mile later and say, “Crap, was there something I shouldn’t have said?”

There I was, standing in the middle of a ring of women, conducting a bridal shower game.  Now some of these women had known me since I was a baby; while, others were my soon-to-be sister-in-law’s friends, which I just met an hour or so before at the beginning of the party.  I was conducting the games because I could lead without stepping on any one’s toes.  We were playing a game in which everyone had to guess how many questions my sister-in-law would know about my brother, who had answered them the night before.  Questions included his favorite food, book, and such.  But we had a four-way tie, and I had to break it some how.  I had the winners guess if my sister-in-law would get the bonus question.

Me: What was my brother’s doll’s name?

A collective “WHAT?” settled over the room, except for those few women who knew my brother since he was a baby.

K: (didn’t blink) Buddy.

Me: (smiling) No.  Not his My Buddy.  His first doll.  The one he loved.

K: What?  He had another doll?

My mom: Actually, he had three.  The My Buddy.  A Wrestling Buddy.  And this one.

K: Then I don’t know.  I only knew of Buddy.

Me: You’re going with Buddy then?

K: Yes.

Me: It was Paula.

K: I’ve never heard that one.

Me: It was a boy doll, and T was only three or four.  But since I had dolls, he had to have one.  He begged and begged for one.  So that Christmas, one grandma got him a homemade boy doll, which he named Paula.  He loved that doll.

Then I remembered I was not alone with K, pouring over embarrassing baby pictures.  I was in the middle of ring of women.  Many of these women were friends of my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, my boyfriend’s girlfriend.  Now they knew he had a boy doll named Paula.  Good thing we don’t live in the same house any more.

Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

Reasons to stare at the wall than play Candy Land

My dad hated playing Candy Land.  I never understood why.  Until now.


1) Everyone wants the same color gingerbread man.  Every time.  It doesn’t matter if Sean’s favorite color is blue and Evan’s is read.  If the other had it first, then the second needs it NOW.

2) Sean must have more than one.  Evan finds this unfair.  I don’t care as long as it keeps the peace.

3) Evan must have every gingerbread man piece lined up just so, even if Sean is not going to play with the game.

4) Evan must make up an elaborate story before the first card is drawn.  Woe to those who try to play without listening to the long winded story.

5) Sean, who was once satisfied to just play with his pieces by himself and occasionally tornado through the game board, which gave me an opportunity to use my awesome visual memory, wants to pull cards too.

6) Sean: Blue!

Me: No, Sean.  Red.  That’s red.

Sean: Blue!

Me: No, Sean.  That’s orange.

Sean: Blue!

Me: Good job, Sean.  Blue.

Sean: Blue!

Me: No, Sean.  That’s green.  Grrrreeeeeennnnn.

7)Evan must make up a story about every move, every person, every color, every square, every picture, every move.

8)Evan: And this guy said hello.  He liked red, but he didn’t like blue.  Or green.  Just red.  And he said, “Look at those squares.  There is a red one and a blue one and a green one and a yellow one and an orange one.”  And he jumped to the red one because he liked red.  He said to the kids, “Come follow me.”  And they followed him.  There was a little girl, a little boy, another little girl, and another boy.  They sat at the- What’s this called again?  Oh, yeah.  The gingerbread tree, and they said, “Hello, gingerbread tree.” And he said . . .”

9) Evan has to ask the same questions over and over and over.

10) Evan: What’s that, Mommy?

Sean: Blue!

Me: That’s a peppermint beaver.  No, Sean.  That’s orange.

Evan: Oh, and what’s he doing?

Me: Cutting down-

Sean: Blue!

Me:- candy canes.  No, Sean.  That’s yellow.

Evan: And who’s that?

Sean: Blue!

Me: Mr. Mint.  No, that’s yellow again.  Same card I think.

Evan: What’s that?

Me: A peppermint beaver.

Sean: Blue!

11) Evan thinks that double squares actually mean three squares.  The first one doesn’t count.

12) Evan wants to go down the bridges, back and forth and without landing on them.

13) Sean is obsessed with ice cream.

Sean: Cream!  Cream!  (after he moved my head to look, pointing at the ice cream palace.)

14) Does any one remember when it was Princess Lolly, daughter of the King of Candy Land?

15) Evan: Mommy, what’s that?

Me: (How many times do I have to tell you it’s) The Chocolate Swamp.

16) Evan doesn’t want to keep drawing cards and is surprised he didn’t win as soon as he usually does; while, I kick myself for not stacking the cards And stacking the cards.

17) After finally making it to the chocolate monster, Evan wants to visit the peanut area.  And read the story.  And ask me more questions.  And tell me more stories.

18) Sean decides he wants to move the board.

19) Candy Land ends the way Monopoly used to end at my parents’ house when I was a kid.  Game pieces were thrown, cards scattered, and Mom yelling to quit it.

20) Evan wants to put away the board before Sean does.  Crying resumes.

21) Evan decides he wants a lollypop.  No, a candy cane.  No, chocolate.  How about some ice cream? 

Sure you do, kid.  That was the whole point of the game.  But I guarantee you, I need it more than you.

Sean: Blue!

Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

Another Little Brother

My first clear memory was when I was three, just a handful of months before my fourth birthday.  I caught my parents looking at two plastic bat and ball sets.  I knew I shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have been there, but I saw them and ran back to where I was supposed to be.

The next memory was a few days later.  My little brother and I were playing with the bat sets in the backyard of my grandparent’s house.  I had received a red bat and yellow ball; while, my little brother had a yellow bat and a red ball.  We switched balls.  I was always given red things, and my brother always received blue.  I always got the hero action figure, and my little brother always got the side-kick.

I remember throwing the ball up and trying to hit it.  I was wearing a short set, probably pink, though I’m only guessing because of photographs.  I remember we didn’t have much success of hitting the ball. 

Then the memory flash forwards to dinner, just a few hours later.  My grandparents, brother, and I were sitting at the breakfast bar, eating chili, when my dad came into the kitchen door.  He looked tired.  He looked happy.  I remember being excited to see him, yelling daddy from my seat as I couldn’t jump up to hug him as I hadn’t finished my meal and been excused.  He kissed me.  He shot a look at my grandma that I couldn’t interpret at the age.

“You have a new baby brother,” he said.

I was crushed.

I wanted a baby sister, not another brother.  Not another brother.  Later I would learn that my dad had called my grandma earlier that day to give her the good news, which she refused to pass on to me because I was so very certain I would have a baby sister, not another brother.  That was twenty-five years ago today.

The next memory I had was sitting at the dinette table (the one I’m sitting at now), coloring with my little brother and my mom.  I was happily chatting away about something.  I stopped, thinking.  “What’s his name again?” I asked.  My mom sighed and told me.  It wasn’t the first time I had asked, nor was it the last.

But luckily for me, I learned to love the little guy, and after we grew up out of the sibling rivalry crap, we became friends.  I couldn’t ask for a nicer, sweeter baby brother.  Of course, he’s now my Big baby brother. 

As for my just deserts, our family dog has just turned sixteen, and for sixteen years, my brother has accidently called me Athena, instead of my name when he’s in hurry and not thinking.  Pay backs are a bear.

Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

We got a band here

Evan: Old McDonald had a farm.  Ei-eio-.  And on that farm he had a cow-

Sean: Cow.

Evan: Ei-ei-o.  With a moo-moo here.  And a moo-moo there.  Here a moo.  There a moo.  Every where a moo-moo.  Ei-ei-o.

Sean: Oh.

Evan: Old McDonald had a farm. Ei-ei-o.  And on that farm he had a dog-

Sean: Da

Evan: Ei-ei-o.  With a ruff-ruff here.  And a ruff-ruff there.  Here a ruff.  There a ruff.  Every where a ruff-ruff.  Ei-ei-o

Sean: Oh.

Evan: Old McDonald had a farm.  Ei-ei-o.  And on that farm he had a Missing Blink.  Ei-ei-o.

Sean: Oh.

Evan: Mommy!  What does a Missing Blink sound like?

Me: I think he roars.

Sean: Ra!

Evan: Which a roar-roar here.  And a roar-roar there.  Here a roar.  There a roar.  Every where a roar-roar.  Ei-ei-o.

Sean: Oh!

Evan: Old McDonald had a farm.  Ei-ei-o.  And on that farm there was a . . . robot! Ei-ei-o.

Sean: Oh!

Evan: With a-  And a-.  Old McDonald had a farm.  Ei-ei-o!  And on that farm he had a B.O.B.  Ei-ei-o.

Sean: Oh!

Evan: With a Suuuuusan here.  And a Suuuuuuson there.  Oh, I think I scared myself. 

Sean: Oh.

Evan: Old McDonald had a farm.  Ei-ei-o.  And on his farm he had a city. Ei-ei-o.

Sean: Oh!

Me: What?

Evan: Old McDonald had a farm.

Me: But what did he have on his farm?

Evan: I don’t know.  Something.  What did it say?

Me: What did what say?

Evan: What did it say?!

Me: What did what say?

Evan: What. Did. It. Say? Mommy!

Me: (sigh) Old McDonald had a farm.  Ei-ei-o.  And on his farm he had a- (I point to Evan).

Evan: A city!

Sean: Ity!

Me: Oh, a city!

Evan: What does a city say?

Me: Hmmm, how about roar, rumble, honk!

Evan: With a roar-rumble-honk here.  And a roar-rumble-honk there.  Here a rumble-roar-honk.  There a rumble-roar-honk. Everywhere a rumble-roar-honk.  Ei-ei-o.

Sean: Oh!

Evan: Old McDonald had a farm.  Ei-ei-o.  And on his farm he had a silversaurus!  Ei-ei-o!

Sean: Oh!

Evan: With a roar-roar here! 

Sean: Roar!

Evan: And a roar-roar there!

Sean: Roar!

Evan:  Here a roar!  There a roar!  Everywhere a roar-roar! Ei-ei-oooooooo!

Sean: Ooooooooooooooooooh!  Yeah!  (He claps)


Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

Five For Fighting

I know I should have seen it coming.  I knew it was coming.  I should be more prepared.  I should have read books about this.  I should have talked to my mom about it more.  Heck, I should have-


What’s going on now?  Be nice!


Talked to other moms about it more.  But I didn’t, and now I don’t feel-


Knock it off!


Prepared.  Because-


Be good!  Stop harassing your bother!  Both of you!


I am now The Referee. 


Like I said I knew it was going to happen.  I mean my brothers and I harassed each other so much that I’m amazed my mom didn’t go prematurely gray, and my dad does blame his hair loss on it.  I just was hoping


If Evan is playing with the car, you cannot have it, Sean!  You have to wait until he is done.  Here take this car.


That I had a few more years, a few more months, just a few more wee-


Sean!  We do not throw cars at our brothers.  Time out!  Evan!  We don’t hit back!  Time out!


I need a goddamn whistle.  Hell, I need a penalty box.  F-it I need a drink.


I remember how my mom would point out other families whose kids never fought.  We explained to her that it was hidden, unnatural, weird.  Now I realize my words are coming back to bite me in the ass.


Boys!  You can play a duet on the piano.  Share!


Lately I have been barking the orders to share and to be nice.  And for the love of God, be good.  How hard it is to share?  How hard is it to play with another-


We have two guitars.  You can each have one.  Take turns then!


So my job description sounds a little like this: maid, chef, dishwasher, laundress, chauffer, personal shopper, doctor, nurse, reader, filer, garbage collector, decorator, librarian, camp counselor, teacher, babysitter, and now Referee.


As The Referee, my job disc-


Evan, you stay on this side.  Sean, you stay on that side.  Now everyone has room to play.  Evan!  Don’t mess with Sean.


Description is to make sure that all injuries are due to accidents and not malice, to keep life as fair between siblings as humanly possible, and to make sure all rules with their penalties are enforced properly.


Now what?!


I need a time out.

Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

Tornado S’s First Time Out

Tornado S is teething, which is the toddler equivalent to PMS.  Add to that Tornado S was upset that he couldn’t go outside with his Uncle M to feed the dog.  Tornado S is a pouter.  His temper tantrums include him falling to the floor, face first, sometimes crying.  Tornado S had yet to fall to the floor, but he was pouting.  Tornado E, being the tormenting older brother he was, couldn’t help let the opportunity go by without getting into Tornado S’s face and being . . . well, a brat.


So Tornado S did what any naturally pissed off, irritated, annoyed person does when confronted with a bully.


He hauled out and punched Tornado E in the face.  When I mean punch, I mean Tornado S cocked his fist back and threw his weight behind it.  Tornado E landed on the floor.


For a minute the world stood still, and the four grownups, Papi, Uncle M, Daddy, and me, didn’t know how to react.


A family story reemerged.




T was T, which is to say T was a tormentor.  He tormented me from the moment he could crawl, and then when M was born, well, it was just one more child to torment.  T just knew how to get under people’s skin, could see the weakness, knew this would get him attention.  So one day, T picked on M, who was just a mere toddler, over and over, ALL DAY.  M was a good natured little guy, enduring it with the fortitude of a rock, until the evening.  T was at M again, which probably wasn’t smart as M was as big as T, though two years younger.  Then in the midst of the teasing, M pulled back his fist and cocked T in the face.  My mother felt her hands were tied as T really did have it coming.




I wanted to laugh but knew it wouldn’t help.


Papi: Tornado S.  It’s time for time-out.


I snapped to action.


Me: Tornado S.  That was a wrong decision.  That was not nice.  Now you have to go into time-out.


I scooped up Tornado S and placed him in the make-shift time-out chair.  I set the timer for a minute and half.  Turning towards the crying Tornado S who was being reminded to stay there by Papi, I saw Tornado E going in for the kill as now Tornado S was a sitting duck.  I swooped in and sent Tornado E to play with Uncle M, rather than taunting his imprisoned little brother.


At the end of the time-out, where amazingly Tornado S stayed sitting the whole time, I placed Tornado S on my lap and told him I loved him and that he needed to hug his brother.


Tornado S went toward Tornado E to hug him.  Tornado E raised his arm, holding a stuff dragon.  I stuck out my arm to block the blow before it hit Tornado S.  Tornado E’s momentum kept going, sending him face first into my arm.  With a wail, Tornado E shouted “MOMMY HIT ME!”  DON’T HIT YOUR BROTHER.


Begun, the clone war has. I declare sibling war.

It happened.  It finally happened.  Ok, maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised. 


Last weekend we were visiting some friends, and in their backyard was a swing set with a slide.  The boys were so excited to play with it.  Eventually Evan discovered a new game o0f rolling cars down the slide to Sean who laughed with glee, giving me the car to hand back to Evan to start the process all over again.   Evan kept in his other hand a purple Halloween flashlight that he found and wanted to carry around the house.  So after a dozen times of rolling down the car, Evan realized that the flashlight was round like wheels.  Let’s see what happens.


Success.  The flashlight rolled perfectly into Sean’s waiting hands, but rather than hand the flashlight to Mommy, Sean’s chubby hands closed around the flashlight.  Then Sean turned and started pumping those thick legs for all they were worthy.  Evan let out a cry and threw himself down the slide.  This is bad.


Since my legs are longer than the boys are tall, I shot past Evan with ease.  Sean had the element of surprise even though he still has that waddle run with his arms pumping side to side.  I caught up to him before he rounded the pool, shouting to Evan to let Mommy handle this.  I grabbed Sean and set him down, kneeling to look eye to eye. 


“Evan was playing with this.  This is Evan’s toy.  When he is done with it, you can play with it.  Now give it to Mommy.”


I know the only reason Sean wanted it was because Evan had it.  I pried the flashlight out of Sean’s fingers.  I handed it to Evan.  Sean’s hand shot out and grabbed the flashlight.  They tug-a-war-ed it.  I grabbed Sean, pulling him off the flashlight.  Sean wailed as though his puppy died.  Then I carried him inside and dumped him into my husband’s lap.


“What’s wrong, Sean,” asked my husband.


“He’s acting like a second born.”



I shouldn’t have been so surprised.  Maybe I should have been surprised over how long they were friends.  According to family legend my brother and I declared war much earlier on.


I was sitting, watching TV, holding my Teddy, sucking on my pacifier, minding my own business.  When my brother, my non-sucking pacifier brother, crawled over, he took the pacifier out of my mouth and crawled away.  When he was safely past arms length, he sat down, waved the pacifier in my direction to make sure I knew he had it, and stuck it in his mouth.  Are you kidding me?!  And I did what any toddler would do.  I started to cry.  And plot revenge.


And then it was a free for all after that.  Little moon-shape scars from fingernails.  Clumps of hair pulled from the root.  Barbie doll heads, hot wheel wheels, broken banks, broken toys.  Lies, blaming, tattling, arguments.  Wrestling matches that went on hours after the favorite TV show was over and unwatched.  A malignant hate that spread amongst the three of us in all consuming war that finally cumulated to the devastating head of-


Actually we eventually grew out of it in our late teens, early twenties, and we actually call one another and hang out.  It’s weird.  Of course, the minute the parents leave us alone with the TV and remote, we start arguing again.




So now whatever Evan has, Sean must have  it NOW.  If Evan is eating something, even if Sean has his own or already ate his own, he must have Evan’s NOW.  Not that Evan doesn’t just run by to hit, push, kick Sean whenever he gets the urge.  You can actually see it in Evan’s eyes when he’s decided to do something to Sean.


The other day, Sean bent down to examine something on the ground.  Evan took the opportunity to go behind Sean and start kicking him in the bum.  Sean was as unmoved as a rock.  I was horrified, and Evan spent sometime in the time out chair.


Or the day when Evan refused to nap and fell asleep on the couch watching football with his dad.  Out of nowhere, Sean came over and just started wailing on Evan, who slept through the whole thing.  We would scold Sean and distract him, but two minutes later he’s getting in his blows.  Hey, show some respect.  At least, do it when your parents aren’t watching!


So I’m knee deep in sibling rivalry.  Part of it’s my fault because I can’t seem to remember to buy two of everything.  Why the hell didn’t I buy two Wall*e’s.  And Bill Cosby may be right; eventually I won’t care about justice, just peace.

Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

The Second Child Around

“Want some,” Sean says as he reaches out to the hamburgers cooking on the grill.  His hand makes the milk sign of open and closing fist.  Funny, we only taught Evan that sign, which he used it for everything.  Sean uses the word “juice” for everything.  I was planning on teaching Sean sign language, but then Evan had refused to learn once he realized no one else used it to communicate unless it was with him.  Ha, he’s not a baby; he’s people too.  After reading Badmommymoment’s blog, I got to paying attention what was different with Sean.


Candy.  That was Evan’s favorite word at this age.  He always wanted CANDYYYY.  And we were the bad parents that let him beg and receive CANDYYYY.  Oh, those dirty, judgmental looks we would receive in public when Evan began to beg for CANDYYYY.  Even two of our single friends cornered my husband to register a complaint against the candy giving (don’t you love how single and without kids have opinions on how you rais your kids?).  Of course, Evan hadn’t realized that raisins, freeze dried fruit, and fruit snacks made with juice were not actually candy.  God, we were so smart.  CANDYYYY.  You want candy?  Here, have some raisin candy.  Mmmm, good. Except Evan got older and learned that a raisin was a raisin and a freeze dried strawberry was a strawberry, and of course chocolate and gooey sugar were candy.  What could we do?  But the draw back is that Sean knows what CANDYYYY is.  But instead of saying CANDYYYY, he AHHHHHHs, reaching towards the marshmallows or the M&Ms.  If you feed him some marshmallows mixed with freeze dried apples, he’ll humor you for a little while before begging for more marshmallows.


Ah, PEZ dispensers, the perfect toy for a child too young to have an action figure.  They have the heads of various favorite cartoon characters and perfect for toddler hands to carry.  That is until a grandparent (or in my case, MY parents) actually put PEZ in them.  Then the toddler realizes that they are for CANDYYYY.  Now I have Sean bringing me the PEZ dispensers, making his ah sound, forcing it back in my hand when I try to give it back or play with it.  Come on, Mom, I need the sweet stuff; just one little taste, Mom; come one, Mom; I’m your baby boy; you love me; just one little piece.  Now the Shrek, the Donkey, the countless Star Wars dispensers have turned against me, becoming instruments of whining instead of peace makers as they were originally intended.


With way too many small party, small choking hazards that they call toys for those who are three and up.  They litter my house.  Sean has naturally gravitated to Evan’s toys, and often Evan is seen playing with Sean’s toys.  Sean will sit for hours (ok a half an hour, but in toddler time that’s like 3 hours) playing a Duplo boy into the police car or police SUV while opening the car doors and playing the music (“We’re Tonka; we’re here to rescue you”! {Not getting the button stuck so you don’t sing for 15 minutes might help in rescuing me, especially if you got me some nice Advil}).  While watching him figure out toys meant for someone two years older is really cool, realizing that Sean has a marble in his mouth is frightening.  I don’t even know how Evan got to the marbles any way.  They’re not even his!  Sure, Evan popped coins in his mouth every chance he gets (but Sean doesn’t), but he chewed on them.  Sean rolls the marble around his mouth with his tongue.


The dreaded high chair.  Evan was forced out of his high chair at two and half when one of our friends was kind enough to buy him a booster chair for Christmas, so that we could put Sean in the high chair at dinner time instead of on a little chair on top of the kiddie table.  Sean LOVES the booster chair.  He scrambles up into it every meal, trying to convince us to let him sit there and just put Evan over there in that thing.  Right.  Granted, I have turned around to find Sean sitting in his high chair waiting for the tray and his food.  God only knows how he got in it, and we have the nice, hard Mexican tile.  But Sean wants to be like every one else and sit at the table.  (Another thank you to my parents for introducing this to my boys.)  Maybe I’ll ask the same friend to buy Sean a booster for Christmas.


Then there’s the TV, which poor Sean was born to.  Evan had a television ritual firmly in placed by the time Sean came.  Morning with Mickey for Mommy’s shower; Afternoon’s with Sesame Street for cooking dinner; DVD time before bedtime so Mommy could do her daily chores so she could get to bed early and stop lugging around the great belly that would be Sean.  During breastfeeding, the TV was turned on if Evan wouldn’t stop climbing on me, disrupting Sean.  So of course, Sean knew Mickey, Elmo, and Shrek much earlier than Evan. 


But not all of this bad first time parenting is a curse.  Like I said Sean has figured out how to manipulate toys that are suppose to be too advance for him.  While he knows what a treat is, he believes he should get a sticker for brushing his teeth just like Evan.  Now that Sean is paying attention to the shows, he walks straight over to the TV to play the games and solve the puzzles.  Of course he uses more sentences than Evan did at this age with his “Want that,” “Want some,” “Want more.”  And then he also says “Pease” and “dank u.”  Maybe I can get this Mommy thing down.  I just have to be a little looser than they suggested. 


Hey!  You’re not eating Yoda’s Head, are you?  Sean!  Don’t run!

Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network