These Are Not the Balloons You're Looking For

Now that he's mastered talking, The Roc has begun to experiment with whispering. It may sound cute, but it's like living with Gollum.

I was changing his diaper on the changing table the other day and suddenly I heard an eerie, barely audible hiss: "Put me down. Put me down. Put me down."

This morning, when I took him out of his crib, he stared into my eyes and whispered: "Yogurt. Yogurt. Yogurt."

And later, waiting in line at Trader Joe's, I heard: "I want a balloon. I want a balloon. I want a balloon."

Is The Roc playing Jedi mind tricks?

What Little Boys Like

I took The Roc shopping for a gift for a friend who just had a baby boy.

"What do little boys like?" I asked him, expecting an answer involving trucks.

Without hesitating, The Roc replied: "They like poop."

I Need Some Manners

Now that The Roc has mastered complete sentences, we're trying to teach him some social graces, like "please" and "thank you." It's not going well.

"Mommy, I want a pretzel."

"Try 'Mommy, I would like a pretzel please.'"

"Mommy, I would like a pretzel."

"What else do you say?"

"Mommy, I neeeeeeeeed a pretzel!"

Not only is The Roc not getting it, but he's dragging Daddy down with him.

"Honey, I neeeeeeeeed a beer."

"There's a new Dan Brown novel coming out. I neeeeeeeeed it."

"I don't neeeeeeeeed to iron this shirt; it's wrinkle-resistant."

The Roc's nose-picking has become so blatant that I finally staged an intervention.

"Honeybun, why do you keep picking your nose?"

"There are boooodies inside.

"You mean boogers?" I asked, wondering where he'd picked up that particular word.

"No, boooodies. Tweet, tweet, tweet!"

"There are birdies in your nose? How did they get there?"

"Flap, flap, flap!" He flapped his arms enthusiastically.

I neeeeeeeeed a margarita.

Kitty Smells Like Butter

In retrospect, I can understand why The Roc thought the cat needed a coating of hairspray. Leroy has a lot of hair. Unfortunately, The Roc used Pam.

Hueles A Caca, Mamá

While we're on the subject of egregious toy store transgressions, I would like to make a public apology to our gardeners. Every Monday morning, whatever the weather, a hardworking crew of Mexican guys shows up to mow and groom our lawns. And every week, while they are trying to do their jobs, The Roc grabs his battery-operated toy lawn mower and toy leaf blower (yes, that's right, toy leaf blower) and noisily pretends to be a gardener.

First of all, I want to point out that I did NOT buy the lawn mower or the leaf blower for The Roc. They were gifts. I'm just thankful no one has bought him the matching weed whacker or hedge trimmer. Yet.

Second of all, The Roc is not mocking you. He thinks you're fantastic. You are his heroes. From his perspective, you guys, the mailman, and the garbage man are the only people who ever do anything worthwhile around here.

Of course, while I am full of white guilt over the leaf blower, I have no similar compunctions about The Roc's toy medical kit or toy cash register. Maybe I should. Maybe if he took the cash register to the grocery store and pretended to ring stuff up, or tried to listen to his pediatrician's heartbeat on his plastic stethoscope, I'd mind. Especially if they made loud rumbling sounds.

Tiger Woods Has a LOT to Answer For

After Daddy and Granddaddy's birthday party, we all passed out in front of the television in a sugar-induced haze. The PGA Championship was on, and, to no one's surprise, Tiger Woods was ahead by 3 strokes. You'd have to be living under an actual rock not to know that by the time Tiger was The Roc's age, he was already hitting perfect drives with a toddler-sized golf club his coach/daddy made for him by sawing off an adult-sized golf club. An inspiring story, but one with somewhat ironic long-term consequences: wander into any major toy store these days and you will find an entire aisle dedicated to kiddie golf gear, for toddlers on up. Either we are raising a generation of champion golfers, or someone is making a Tiger-sized fortune convincing us that we are.

Cheers, Granddaddy!

This weekend, we are throwing a family birthday party for Daddy and Granddaddy, who are turning a combined 104 years old this month. Today, Granddaddy asked The Roc what he got Daddy for his birthday. The Roc must have finally grasped that Daddy's birthday present is supposed to be a Big Big Secret, because he replied: "We got YOU wine."

U Smell Like Poop LOL

It's been quite a summer for me and The Roc. So far, highlights have included a 20-mile bike ride (towing The Roc in a trailer, which was a lot like towing an actual rock in a trailer), sneaking into Legoland (inadvertently! how was I to know they recently changed their free-admission-after-7 policy?), getting knocked over by a rogue wave at the beach, and seeing some adorable baby cheetahs. Also, The Roc has turned into a human Twitter feed, keeping up a running narrative of his own eventful life. For example:

"The wave knocked me over."

"I am all wet."

"Mommy is all wet."

"I have sand in my diaper."

"Mommy is changing my diaper."

"My legs are up."

"My diaper is off."

"Mommy is wiping me."

"I have a new diaper."

"My legs are down."

"I pick you up, Mommy."

Occasionally, The Roc has trouble with his personal nouns. He also has trouble keeping his mouth shut. I should have known, given his penchant for verbiage and the recent incident at the donut shop, that The Roc was going to spill the beans about our shopping trip for Daddy's birthday present, even though I explicitly told him that it was a Big Big Secret.

"Don't tell Daddy," I said, and I made him repeat it, just to be safe.

The ink on the credit card receipt was hardly dry when The Roc announced, in Daddy's hearing:

"I want to play with the helicopter."

"Which helicopter?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. We have a lot of helicopters around here.

"The helicopter in the box!" he replied.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said evenly, motioning for him to shush when Daddy wasn't looking.

"The helicopter in the box in Mommy's car!" The Roc insisted, loudly.

"There's no helicopter in Mommy's car, silly."

By this time, Daddy was beginning to catch on.

"What color is the helicopter?"

"Yellow!"

"Is it a big helicopter?"

The Roc looked at me, then looked at Daddy, and said:

"Don't tell Daddy!"