Lego My Milk

This week, The Roc and I took a road trip to visit his Uncle Dave and Auntie Anna. Their house has a balcony, a staircase, a large, excitable dog, and an unfenced train track in the vicinity, among other toddler death traps. But it also happens to be mere minutes from Legoland, which puts it at the top of The Roc's must-see list.

Legoland is the paradise of toddlers, the purgatory of their parents, and the hell of any other adult unfortunate enough to get dragged along for the ride, as Uncle Dave can now attest.

"I just don't have any patience for kids who run wild and whine and misbehave," Uncle Dave admitted as we left. "Especially at Legoland. In some parts of the world, they'd be working in salt mines."

"Don't worry, when you have your own kids, you'll feel exactly the same," I assured him.

As if Legoland itself was not exhausting enough, I had to share the guest futon with The Roc, who is used to sleeping in a crib with four padded walls where he can bounce around like a somnambulant pinball all night. On several occasions, I awoke to the rhythmic sound of tiny, footsie-pajama-clad feet kicking me in my face, my stomach, the small of my back. Once, I heard a rumbling noise coming from somewhere under the futon; it was The Roc, who was snoring with his legs on the mattress and his torso hanging upside-down over the side.

In the middle of the night, The Roc woke me up for the 67th time and whispered in his scariest Gollum voice: "I want milk. I want milk. I want milk"

Trying not to wake the dog, I tiptoed to the kitchen and returned a minute later with a nice, cold glass of milk. The Roc grabbed it but stubbornly remained in a supine position.

"Sit up, Sugarplum," I told him, holding on to the glass.

Wrong thing to say to a thirsty, half-asleep two-year-old.

"I NEEEEEEEED IT!" The Roc screamed, loud enough to drown out the roar of the freight train passing in the night.

Great Moments in Aviation History

Today, The Roc and I checked out the Air and Space Gallery at the California Science Center. We sat in a police helicopter, played in a wind tunnel, and launched model gliders from a surprisingly oomphy catapult.

As we left, The Roc announced: "I like that."

"What was your favorite part?" I asked him, very proud of myself for planning such an entertaining (and educational!) outing.

"The dinosaurs."

The Air and Space Gallery has a full-sized United Airlines DC-8, the actual Gemini 11 capsule, and a rare surviving F-20 Tigershark prototype, but not one dinosaur.

"Where were the dinosaurs, Honey?"

"Hiding somewhere."

Mommy Smells Like Dreft

It's 2:57 pm and The Roc is already on his fifth outfit of the day, not including the jammies he woke up in. Look #1, an orange and white striped polo shirt and khaki shorts, fell victim to raspberry stains at breakfast. Look #2, a pale blue shirt with a brown stripe and brown shorts, got soaked when I let The Roc water the tomato patch. Look #3, a blue and green striped polo shirt and navy blue shorts, ended up covered in flour after we baked cookies. A popsicle melted all over Look #4, an olive green T-shirt and his OTHER pair of khaki shorts. He's now napping in Look #5, a yellow crocodile shirt and brown plaid shorts; I expect that one will stay clean for at least the next hour and a half, while I do some laundry. But you never know. The Roc hasn't changed clothes this many times in one day since he was two months old and in his projectile-pooping phase. One finger-painting project, squirt gun battle, or spaghetti dinner and we may be looking at a new record.