Adult Supervision

The Roc: "I'm pezerizing you."

Mommy: "What does that mean?"

The Roc: "I'm telling you what to do."

Mommy: "You mean you're supervising me?"

The Roc: "Yes."

Bad Horsie

Today we went to see the new Disney movie Tangled. It was our first time seeing movie in a theater together as a family, as well as our first 3D movie. (Because we have a three-year-old, we haven't gotten out much since the whole 3D phenomenon kicked in.) The movie was cute, with catchy songs and plenty of action. But the best part was when The Roc stood up and shouted at the screen: "NO, horsie! STOP fighting! BAD horsie!"

Bang!

The Roc doesn't have any toy guns. That's not necessarily a hard-and-fast parenting policy, it's just that he's always been more of a truck guy. Besides, as any parents of boys will tell you, there's no point in banning toy guns from your house, because they will just make their own using whatever is at hand. Tonight at dinner, The Roc crafted one out of two carrot sticks.

The Roc Wants to Know

Why do you say "nice and tight" when someone sneezes?

I'm Hoping for Naked on a Stick Horse

The Roc has developed quite a flair for making a dramatic entrance after waking up from his nap. Apart from the aforementioned baby powder incident, he has burst out of his room once on a stick horse, once completely naked, and once pantsless, riding a tricycle. We never know what the next nap time will bring; watch this space.

See You Later, Alligator

On a recent trip to the zoo, The Roc noticed that there was only one alligator in the alligator enclosure, instead of the usual two.

"Where's the other alligator?" he asked, rather loudly.

"I don't know, Honeybun," I replied.

The Roc rolled his eyes and said: "Mommy, I was talking to the alligator."

Every Day is Talk Like A Pirate Day at Our House

Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day! We started celebrating early this year. A few months ago, The Roc suddenly went from not pronouncing his R's at all ("The Woc") to totally over-pronouncing them ("The Rrrrrrrroc"). It's like living with Long John Silver, only instead of "Shiver me timbers!" he says things like "Herrrrrre comes the garrrrrbage trrrrruck!" and "I rrrrreally love cerrrrrreal, Mommy."

Preschool

Day 1: I stayed for two and a half hours before The Roc gave me permission to leave. There was just enough time to put gas in the car before I had to pick him up again.

Day 2: I walked The Roc to the door of his classroom. He waved and said: "Bye, Mommy!" I went shopping.

Day 3: I walked The Roc to the school gate, where his teacher was waiting. "Do you want me to come in?" I asked. "No, you can wait here," he told me. Apparently he thinks I just hang out by the gate while he is in preschool.

The Great Outdoors

Daddy has been upgrading our earthquake safety gear and recently acquired a large tent. Because the only way you'll ever catch me sleeping in a tent is if my house has actually fallen down around me.

"Maybe one night we can put up the tent and have a sleepover in the backyard," Daddy told The Roc, obviously expecting an enthusiastic response.

I guess The Roc inherited some of his mother's genes after all, because he looked at Daddy in horror and asked: "WHY?"

The Roc Smells Like Baby Powder

One of the dirty little secrets you learn when you have a baby is that baby powder is not actually necessary. At best, it is useless; sprinkle it in the diaper area and you will end up with a sticky pee-powder paste. At worst, it's dangerous; talc is a carcinogen, after all. Yet everyone loves the smell of baby powder, including, apparently, babies.

Though we never actually used it on him, The Roc somehow discovered that baby powder smells good. We keep a bottle of the cancer-free cornstarch-based variety in the bathroom, and he likes to dust his hands with it after he brushes his teeth every night, just so he can fall asleep to the scent of whatever the heck makes baby powder smell like baby powder.

One day, The Roc was napping--or so I thought--when he suddenly emerged from his room absolutely covered in baby powder. His hair, his face, his hands, his once-black Baby Gap jeans: all snowy white. If not for the distinctive, overpoweringly baby-fresh scent, I would have thought he'd survived an explosion of some kind. I ran into his bedroom; it looked like a baby powder bomb had gone off in there. It was hard to get a straight answer out of The Roc, but eventually he revealed that he'd tried to sprinkle baby powder on his pillow so it would smell good during his nap. How that sprinkle turned into a quarter-inch-thick layer of baby powder blanketing The Roc's room, I guess we'll never know.

Back-to-School Shopping

The Roc is starting preschool next week, so I took him shopping for some school clothes.

I thought he'd look cute in a down-filled vest, and I found just what I was looking for at Gymboree.

But The Roc had other ideas. When I showed him the vest, he shook his head and told me: "I don't love it."

This is going to be a long year.

Potty Mouth, Part III

"The pool is a good place to go potty," The Roc told me, right after we got out of the pool.

Mommy Caliente

Eating lunch at a Mexican restaurant last weekend, The Roc popped a piece of heavily spiced chicken into his mouth. I was sitting beside him and couldn't see his reaction, but Daddy later told me that he'd gasped, grabbed his juice box, and sucked down its contents in a single gulp. Then he turned to me and cried: "I need more juice, Mommy!"

As I said, I hadn't noticed this gastronomic crisis unfolding. So my unsympathetic response was: "Honey, that's not how we ask for more juice. Can you say: 'Mommy, may I have more juice please?'"

Potty Mouth, Part II

On our morning walk, we passed a big tree that had been draped in toilet paper.

"I think a squirrel went potty," said The Roc.

Potty Mouth

Now that The Roc is more or less potty-trained, he greets everyone he meets with this foolproof chat-up line:

"I'm The Roc. I'm three. I'm wearing underpants."

Mommy Smells Like Popcorn

Recently, at a playdate, the other mommies and I were discussing good movies we'd seen on DVD lately. (Being mommies, we don't get out to actual movie theaters much.) I mentioned that I'd really enjoyed Inglourious Basterds and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. 

The silence was deafening. Even the shrieks of the children playing in the background seemed to subside. Five pairs of grown-up eyes glared at me. Finally, someone said: "Aren't those really . . . violent?"


That pause was telling. If I'd said I'd liked Iron Man 2 (machine guns, electrified whips, missiles, car crashes, torture, murderous robots, suicide bombing...I could go on) or the latest Twilight movie (vampires, werewolves, decapitation, dismemberment), no one would have batted an eyelash. But because my two picks were not only violent but realistically so, I was instantly perceived as some kind of depraved adrenaline junkie--by a bunch of sanctimonious stroller jockeys who hadn't actually seen either film.

Don't get me wrong; I did like Iron Man 2, and I'm a fan of the Twilight saga. But when it comes to violent content, I found those PG-13 popcorn movies to be far more disturbing than the critically acclaimed, R-rated Basterds and Dragon Tattoo, precisely because violence should be disturbing--not painless, bloodless, computer-generated, slow-mo, and set to rock music.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo graphically depicts rape, incest, torture, mutilation, and murder, most of it directed at women. It's not fun to watch, but it's realistic, as opposed to the violence in Iron Man 2, which was totally unrealistic and, not coincidentally, a lot of fun to watch. Though it was about a serial killer, Dragon Tattoo's body count was far lower than Iron Man's. It's a testament to the filmmakers' skill and sensitivity that I'd advise anyone who has been the victim of domestic or sexual violence to stay far away from Dragon Tattoo. But I wouldn't have hesitated to recommend it to anyone else--until today, that is.

Yeah, Inglourious Basterds was violent, often gratuitously so. But wouldn't it be difficult--not to mention irresponsible--to make a World War II movie without showing violence? When characters get shot, they don't simply clutch their chests and fall down like the nameless evil henchmen and innocent bystanders in Iron Man 2. They bleed, writhe in pain, and beg for mercy. Just like in real life.

There's another reason why I found those rampaging robots and amorous vamps so troubling. Inglourious Basterds and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo weren't marketed to kids; under-17s couldn't even see them without a parent, and I suspect the subtitles and heavy subject matter would have been a turn-off in any case. There were no action figures, video games, or fast-food tie-ins, all of which Iron Man 2 had. The Twilight saga is ostensibly for teens, but there are Twilight Barbie dolls marketed to girls ages 6 and up. At that age, I was still having nightmares from reading Bunnicula.

I know plenty of moms who think it's harmless to watch (or let their children watch) violent movies as long as it's "comic book" or "fantasy" violence. Personally, I don't think death and destruction on a larger-than-life scale should be the stuff of comedy or fantasy, for audiences of any age. Why do I get the feeling that if I brought that up at the next playdate, I'd be the one on the end of the glares again?

Think Globally, Sleep Locally

I'm not quite sure what possessed The Roc to demand footsie jammies in the middle of July, but I'm inclined to blame this guy:

As temperatures climbed into the 90s and we finished reading Where The Wild Things Are for the three hundredth time, The Roc flatly refused to don his brand-new crustacean-themed T-shirt-and-shorts sleepwear set. I finally managed to coax him into bed by promising to buy him some footsie jammies the next day.

What was I thinking? Buying footsie jammies in July is akin to buying a Halloween costume in October, which is to say impossible. Luckily, a quick lap around the mall turned up one sale rack with some of the dregs left over from winter, marked down to $4.99. Upon closer inspection, I realized that they were all girl jammies: pink with blue bunnies, lavender with yellow ducks, pale blue with stars and rainbows, and white with an eco-conscious melange of green turtles, frogs, leaves, peace signs, and polka dots that, upon even closer inspection, turned out to be inexpert renderings of the planet Earth. But I'm all for saving the environment, and I was not about to quibble with $4.99 footsie jammies in July.

Snack Foods According to The Roc

Tweezers

Puzzles

Mothballs

Popsicles

Technology According to The Roc

For a three-year-old, The Roc is pretty adept with technology. In fact, he is much better at using the many high-tech gadgets in our house than he is at pronouncing their names. For example, the "comprinter" is where Mommy and Daddy check their "e-mellow," when they're not checking it on their "cellophones."

Not the Veggies I Had in Mind

Mommy: "What do you want for dinner?"

The Roc: "Veggie Tales."

Stupid Toddler Tricks

Toddlers are like puppies. They have a ton of energy. They're messy eaters. They're not reliably potty trained. They wreck your stuff, but they're so darned cute that you forgive them every time. And, if you're lucky, you get a smart one who can learn tricks and perform them on command.

It's true that toddlers are little sponges. The Roc learned the F-word after hearing it come out of Daddy's mouth just once. (Not wanting to be a bad influence, I always try to swear in German. Meaning my kid can now swear in two languages.) Once they've mastered "please" and "thank you," it's hard to resist teaching them more advanced forms of verbal communication, like Cockney rhyming slang and Snoop Dogg lyrics. From high fives and handshakes, it's a slippery slope to gang signs and exploding fist bumps. You know you've gone too far when your child, unprompted, greets a room full of grown-ups with a truffle shuffle and a cheerful: "What up, peeps?"

Miracle Products

"Miracle product" is not a phrase I use lightly. Oh, who am I kidding? I totally do. If I weren't blogging around my cute kid, I'd probably be blogging about all the miracle products that make my life happier and easier. Blackout curtains. Flushable kitty litter. Nutella. That German shampoo I love. Wrinkle-resistant shirts. Grillable cheese. Cream eyeshadow. Dental floss picks. Cordless speakers. I am easily impressed.

So when a mommy friend recommended this, I ran right out to Trash Store to buy some:

Three servings of fruit and vegetables in each chocolate-flavored scoop! I think I might try to sneak some into my husband's oatmeal, too.

A Horse is a Horse

The Roc is beginning to display a pronounced lack of imagination that is either a stage he's going through or a harbinger of a lucrative career in engineering someday. Recently, while digging through the ten cent bin at the church fundraiser, I scored The Roc a couple of small, plastic horses.

"What are you going to name them?" I asked.

He thought for a moment.

"This one's name is Horsie, and this one's Horsie, too."

"Horsie Two?"

"No, just Horsie."

Happy 3rd Birthday to The Roc!

Ralph's chocolate cake: $7.99. Blue decorating gel: $2.99. Vanilla sugar: $1.98. Plastic palm trees and surfboards: $5.49. Candles: $0.99. Husband saying "Can you make me one for my birthday?": Priceless.

The G-Word

I was not surprised to read in a recent interview with Ivana Trump that she makes her grandchildren call her "Glamma." What shocked me was that she admitted to having grandchildren at all. I know several grandmothers--mothers of my mommy friends--who detest "the G-word" and, far from bragging about their grandchildren or shoving baby photos in your face, would prefer to pretend that they didn't exist, at least publicly. Their grandchildren call them by their first names or cute-but-nonagenarian nicknames. These are busy, active women with jobs, graduate degrees, home gyms, facelifts, highlights, bifocal contacts, and more social and volunteer commitments than they can store in their iPhones.

They're not evil; we live in an ageist society, and the traditional stereotype of the home-bound, cookie-baking, sweater-knitting, elderly, wrinkled, blue-haired grandmother is in dire need of updating. Maybe it never existed at all; even in her eighties, my late, blue-haired grandmother preferred watching college football and doing water aerobics to baking cookies. My other grandmother, also in her eighties and not a blue (or gray) hair in sight, loves baking cookies, although it's hard for her to find the time in her busy schedule of shopping, traveling, instant messaging, and going to Broadway shows.

Fortunately for The Roc, both of his grandmothers embrace their role--and the title that comes with it--gracefully. They may have jobs and home gyms, but they always have time for baking cookies.

Wetter T-Shirt

Normally I avoid American Apparel like the plague. The chain's commitment to sweatshop-free, made-in-the-USA merchandise is completely negated by its pervy ad campaigns and beyond-repulsive, not-even-American CEO.

But when The Roc spotted this cute T-shirt across a crowded mall, I gave in and bought it for him.

He's learning his letters (or "wetters," as he calls them), and while I'd never dress him in something with his whole name on it--parenting experts liken this to hanging a "kidnap me" sign on your child's back--one letter does not an Amber Alert make, right? 

And I Think You Can Walk

One of The Roc's favorite books is The Little Engine That Could, a classic tale of trains, toys, and the power of positive thinking. Today, we were out shopping and came to a big flight of stairs. The Roc demanded to be picked up and carried.

"You're such a big boy now," I told him. "I don't think I can carry you all the way up there."

He replied: "I think you can. I think you can. I think you can."

It's Mother's Day--Where's MY Personalized Cake?

Daddy: "If you finish all your dinner, there's a piece of cake here with your name on it."

The Roc (confused): "Is it my birthday?"

But I Need A Pedicure!

I mentioned today that I was planning to get a pedicure with a girlfriend this weekend.

The Roc looked at me in horror.

"But I NEED you!"

I Can Never Remember Where I Put My Vacuum Cleaner, Either

As a busy, semi-employed mommy, I often jot things down on my the palm of hand so I don't forget them. It's perhaps the one thing Sarah Palin and I have in common, other than our children and a shared fondness for buying expensive shoes with other people's money.

Yesterday, Daddy noticed the The Roc had scribbled all over his hand with a magic marker.

"What's that on your hand, munchkin?"

"It's to remind me."

"To remind you of what?"

"To remind me where I put my vacuum cleaner." The Roc's toy vacuum cleaner is his second-favorite plaything, after his toy lawn mower.

"So where is your vacuum cleaner?" Daddy asked.

The Roc looked at Daddy like he was a crazy person and told him:

"I CAN'T REMEMBER!"

Anything for a Jelly Bean

We've been rewarding The Roc with jelly beans when he goes potty.

Yesterday, after his shower, The Roc declared: "I want some jelly beans!"

"Honey, jelly beans are only for when you go potty," I explained for the fiftieth time. "You haven't pooped in the potty today."

"I peed!" he announced proudly.

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did!"

"In the potty?" I asked suspiciously.

"No, in the shower!"

Why Me?

As predicted by every book ever written on child behavior, The Roc has started asking "Why?" three hundred times a day.

"Stop banging on the table."

"Why?"

"We're going to the park today."

"Why?"

"Don't pull Leroy's tail."

"Why? Ow!"

Not wanting to stifle the natural curiosity that he is certain is going to make The Roc a great scientist some day, Daddy is trying to use reverse psychology. For every "Why?" question of The Roc's, he asks a "Why? question back.

The Roc: "Why do babies cry?"

Daddy: "Why do you think babies cry?"

The Roc: "But.....why?"

As a result, I now hear "Why?" six hundred times a day.

A variation on "Why?" is "Who made it?" These inquiries range from the mundane to the truly existential.

"Who made the car?"

"The car factory."

"Who made the balloon?"

"The man at Trader Joe's."

"Who made Leroy's whiskers?"

"God."

"Who is God?"

Hmmmm. Bit of a loaded question, that one. I tried Daddy's tactic. "You know who God is, don't you?"

"She lives at church!"

"Er....yes. And in heaven."

"And in Bethlehem!"

"Um, sure."

"Can we go to Bethlehem right now?"

"No."

"WHY?"

It's a Jolly Holiday with The Roc

Considering that his father has an accent somewhere between Sean Connery and Shrek, it's not surprising that The Roc has a few pronunciation issues. "Girl" becomes "gel" (with a hard "g," in the upper-crust English style) and "world" sounds like "weld." But my favorite Roc-ism--the one I am most likely to start using in conversation--is "supercalifragilisticexpiali-DOUCHE-us."

Seeing Double

At a birthday party last weekend, two of the young guests were identical (and identically dressed) twin boys. One of them made the mistake of pushing The Roc. As I have trained him to do in these situations, The Roc found me and ratted him out. A mommy conference ensued, apologies were made and conciliatory high five exchanged. End of story? No. A couple of minutes later, out of the corner of my eye, I caught The Roc hitting the OTHER twin. Why? "He pushed me!" It took me a good few seconds to figure out that The Roc didn't realize there were two of them.

Toddler-Ball, Part II

Week Three of toddler sports class, and The Roc is teaching Mommy how to play catch, without success:

"Keep your eyes open!"

"Watch the ball!"

"I'm coaching you!"

Finally, to everyone's relief, Daddy comes home and takes my place.

"You can watch us," The Roc tells me, clearly exasperated.

I don't know why he's so smug. Today's warm-up drill had the toddlers running from one orange cone to another, touching the cone, then running back to the first cone. Only none of them did it. They kept on running. They picked up the cones and ran back with them. They kicked the cones over. They threw the cones in the air. They wore the cones as hats.

And that was just the warm-up. By the end of the hour, it was raining, everyone was covered with mud, and more toddlers than balls had gone flying into soccer nets. Though he'd excelled at throwing, tagging, and high-fiving, The Roc had not managed to catch a single ball.

This Fun Day

The Roc invariably begins his bedtime prayers the same way:

"Dear God: Thank you for this fun day."

It doesn't matter if we've spent this day getting vaccinations, waiting around for a tow truck to fix our broken-down car, running tedious errands, going stir-crazy from being trapped indoors by rain or illness, failing miserably at potty-training, searching for our car in the mall parking lot, screaming at each other, or sitting in traffic. On some level, it's all fun to The Roc. Like a small, fluffy dog, he views the world as an endless succession of games and treats. In fact, on our very worst days, I am always cheered up by the knowledge that, at the end of the day, The Roc will only remember the fun parts, however few and far between.

Toddler-Ball

I've always been the indoorsy type, so The Roc's recent obsession with games involving balls took me by surprise. (Although Daddy is a veritable Olympian in comparison to me, he is also European, which means he can do cool tricks with a soccer ball and understands the rules of cricket but has about as much aptitude for baseball, football, and basketball as The Roc does.)

Wanting to be supportive, I enrolled The Roc in a toddler sports class at a local park, which promised to teach him the basics of kicking, throwing, catching, and hitting. While skills like running in a straight line or throwing a ball up in the air and then catching it may seem instinctive, I can assure you that they are not.

The class started today with the great American pastime: T-ball. Lesson 1: running the bases. Again, it sounds so simple until you try to get a pack of toddlers to do it. First they ran the wrong direction. Then they forgot to touch first base. Then, instead of turning and heading to second, they kept running straight. And so on.

Lesson 2: hitting and tagging out. You'd think it would be impossible to strike out at T-ball; apparently not. The Roc succeeded in making contact, but as soon as he saw another little boy chasing him with ball in hand, he stopped running and politely waited to be tagged out. Then he resumed his meandering circuit of the bases, forgetting to touch home plate in his eagerness to high-five each and every one of his classmates.

Because beyond kicking, throwing, catching, and hitting, the most important sports skill toddlers can learn is high-fiving. Their extremely patient coach made sure they all got high-fives after every play, however poorly executed. And what toddlers lack in athleticism, they make up for in sportsmanship, camaraderie, and cuteness. They were as cute as a bunch of kittens, if not nearly as good at T-ball.

What Desks And Beds Are For

The Roc got a cute little kitchen playset for Christmas, which has caused us no end of frustration. Sure, everyone fantasizes about having a bigger, better kitchen, but nobody wants to have two kitchens in the same house. That's because every time you said something like "I'm over here in the kitchen" or "Just leave the groceries on the kitchen counter" it would lead to total pandemonium. For example, if I tell The Roc to "Put the dirty sippy cup in the kitchen sink" or "Bring me a spoon from the kitchen," there's no telling precisely which kitchen he's going to go to. Then I end up trying to stir my coffee with a tiny wooden toy spoon.

Even before we acquired a second kitchen, The Roc was prone to making up his own names for various locations in our house. Thus, the dining room is "the dinner bedroom," the desk is "the coffee desk," and the office is "the playroom." And despite the presence of the coffee desk, some bookshelves, and a filing cabinet, it really is indistinguishable from a playroom. There is a toy kitchen in it, for goodness sake. I do most of my writing, including this blog, on my laptop, in what The Roc calls "the computer bed."

Yoga Clothes

Since The Roc was born, I've made a conscious effort not to leave the house in sweatpants unless I am actually jogging, which is to say never. That's one mommy cliché I'd like to avoid, along with minivans, Uggs, and jewelry with my child's name, birthdate, and/or picture on it. But I've been sick all week, and today I found myself behind on my laundry and with no food in the house, so I dragged myself out to Trader Joe's wearing what I will euphemistically describe as "yoga clothes." I figured if I embraced the whole look, from headband to running shoes, people might think I was on my way to/from the gym instead of just past caring. People take their toddlers to the gym, right?

I think The Roc was embarrassed by my lack of effort, because as soon as he got his hands on those Trader Joe's stickers, he started to decorate my sad gray hoodie. I was busy paying for groceries at the time, so it was not until several hours later that I realized I had two round floral stickers stuck to my nipples like pasties.

How I Got The Roc to Eat His Spinach

Although The Roc is a pretty adventurous eater (lobster, curry, haggis) he has an instinctive aversion to green vegetables, to the point that he will pick tiny pieces of cilantro out of his pico de gallo. But I've found a sneaky--and delicious--way to get him to eat his greens. It's a smoothie made from one banana, a cup of Trader Joe's frozen mango, a splash of milk, and a big ol' handful of fresh spinach leaves. It is not just good-for-being-full-of-spinach, it is flat-out yummy, with a minty green tint and a flavor slightly reminiscent of green tea ice cream. Trust me, you need to try this at home, whether you have kids or not.

Clever Like a Roc

The Roc has still not mastered the art of keeping secrets.

"We got you earrings!" he told his great-grandmother as he handed her her birthday present.

He loves playing hide-and-seek, which involves him telling everyone to close their eyes, running into the nearest bedroom, then shouting: "I'm in the bedroom!"

Another favorite game is sneaking up on people, although The Roc call it "snaking" up on people--which is pretty clever, considering how stealthy snakes are. The Roc, alas, is not so stealthy. "I'm snaking up on you!" he'll announce from twenty feet away.

Indeed, The Roc is honest to a fault. He has candidly--proudly, even--copped to all manner of transgressions, from peeing in the bathtub to pinching babies.

I guess it's a good thing that The Roc doesn't have a devious bone in his body (yet). Deceitfulness will snake up on him soon enough--especially if Mommy doesn't stop modelling how to cheat at croquet.

Let Sleeping Rodents Lie

A few weeks ago, The Roc and I stumbled across (not quite literally, thank goodness) a rat sleeping on the lawn. At least, that's what I told The Roc, once I finished screaming. It was still "sleeping" in the same spot several hours later, when Daddy came home and put it in the trash can so I could go outside again.

Today, per my New Year's resolution to get more exercise, I took The Roc out for a long walk in his stroller. Suddenly, I spotted a squirrel "sleeping" on the sidewalk, right in our path. "Shhh, honey, the squirrel is sleeping," I said, giving the carcass a wide berth.

To my great surprise, this squirrel really was sleeping. It woke up with a violent shudder, darted between the stroller wheels, and disappeared up a tree. The Roc laughed; Mommy screamed again.

Home Improvements

Somewhere between Christmas and the new year, our house got un-babyproofed. It started with a couple of bulky toys The Roc had outgrown, which we discreetly banished to the garage to make way for the new kitchen playset Grandmommy bought him for Christmas. Then The Roc tripped over the last remaining baby gate in the house and hurt himself, and we realized that the gate wasn't doing anything but getting in everyone's way. Out to the garage it went. Finally, we took advantage of Daddy's vacation time to dismantle the crib, having given up on The Roc relocating to his big boy bed without coercion. With the crib stowed in the garage, I rearranged The Roc's room, hoping he wouldn 't notice the missing crib so much now that he could watch the world go by outside his window while having his diaper changed. Pretty soon he'll be potty trained, the changing table will find its way to the garage, and I'll have another wall to work with. I'm thinking of putting in a giant hamster wheel.

How Much Longer Can I Milk the Santa Thing?

I caught our cat, Leroy, clawing the sofa this morning.

"Don't be naughty!" I told him, shooing him away.

The Roc overheard this and added in a stern tone: "Santa is watching!"

You Can't Spell Croquet Without The Roc

Christmas brought a bounty of new games for The Roc--bingo, dominos, croquet--and unleashed a competitive streak and a capacity for trash-talking we didn't know he possessed. The casual ruthlessness with which he sent my croquet ball flying into the rose bushes today would make his ancestors (both Viking and Okie) proud. "Now I'm the leader of the pack!" he declared. As if we've ever been under any illusions about who's in charge around here.