The Author

On Tuesday morning Peter told me he wanted to be an author.

Me: You mean when you grow up?

Peter: No, now.

He told me he wanted to write a book and asked if I would make him one. So I did.

Then yesterday morning he said he wanted to write another book, but he wanted it to be bigger.

Look, he has a quarto and a folio now.
They're both called Peter's New Friend the Thin Fish. The large version doesn't have much content yet, but the smaller one has some delightful illustrations.


After he drew this he told me that he was in both pictures. And that he had really long arms.

I thought for sure he would ask me to write the text or at least how to spell the words he wanted to write. But he didn't. I looked over at him while I was preparing dinner and saw him writing the title.

Peter Noo Frent = Peter's New Friend

The letters aren't all in order, Peter's brain doesn't always follow a linear pattern. But I think that's some pretty impressive sounding-out skills for a three-year-old.

If he's an author and illustrator at the age of three, what's he going to be at age four?

Girly-Girl

Facebook has a bunch of quizzes going around right now. What kind of 80's toy are you? What Beatles song are you? What's your patronus? What else should you be doing instead of taking this insipid quiz?

I've taken a handful of them. The latest was How girly are you? You want to see my results?

Hey, are you even a GIRL? You are 0% girly! You tend to resist against girly style, likes to stay cool and hang out with boys. But be careful, being girly and sweet is what boys like, and what makes you a girl!

It's sad but true. Maybe it stems from having two younger brothers so close to me in age, but I have always hung out with the boys. And I really don't like the color pink. I've taken some moments of introspection to try to figure out why. I think it's because pink seems weak to me. Isn't that terribly prideful?

In my defense I do own three or four pairs of high-heeled shoes and a fully stocked make-up box. And I know how to use everything in there. I just don't.

I guess it's a good thing I have little boys. Otherwise Bryan might have to learn how to paint toenails and french braid hair.

Hush Little Baby

Friday was momentous at our house. We moved Peter back into his room and we had Cooper join him. Peter was excited about having a roommate. Cooper just thought it was funny that his bed was in a weird room. We had talked about the logistics of this new situation and had decided to put the boys down at different times, waiting until Peter fell asleep before laying Cooper down. I didn't feel great about this strategy though because although Peter falls asleep faster, Cooper howls louder.

We did put Peter down first. Bryan sang to him while I held Cooper in the next room, waiting. After a few minutes Bryan came in and asked for Cooper. I thought he wanted some good Daddy/Cooper snuggling, but instead he had decided to put Cooper in his bed with Peter still wide awake.

Cooper started screaming as soon as his head touched his sheet. Bryan said goodnight to both boys and left. I thought Peter would be out any minute to tell us that Cooper was crying. I was wrong though. After a few minutes I realized that Peter was singing Come, Come Ye Saints, one of the bedtime songs that we sing to him. He was trying to help Cooper calm down by singing to him. I was so touched by that sweet big-brother gesture that my eyes filled with tears.

Cooper kept wailing and Peter kept singing. As we listened from the living room we realized that Peter's words were slowing down and getting harder to understand. He was falling asleep. And Cooper had stopped crying. At one point we think Peter told Cooper a story, but we weren't close enough to hear the details.

After the singing and storytelling stopped we heard Cooper call to Peter. Cooper sings, it's distinct from when he's talking. As Cooper spoke to Peter it sounded for all world like Cooper was asking Peter to sing to him some more. Ten minutes later I crept to the doorway to check on them and saw that both boys were asleep. I'm fairly certain that counts as a miracle.

Of course the next two nights they cried each other to sleep, but I'll hope that that's the exception and not the rule.

The boys' room.

When Times are Tough

Favorite

Bryan was putting Peter to sleep last night when Peter asked a question.

Peter: Daddy did you know that there are lots of Peters?

Bryan: Yes, there are other Peters.

Peter: Do you know any other Peters?

Bryan: Yes I do, but you're my favorite Peter and I don't want any other Peters.

Peter: I don't want any other Daddies.

Please Don't Feed the Peter

Cooper was nearing the end of his diaper supply so I decided to change our shopping day for this week from Friday to Wednesday. The boys and I were almost done when a sweet grandma lady who was handing out samples approached us. I hadn't even seen her until she spoke. She had two little cups of crackers in her hands and said she thought the boys wouldn't like the dip, but they would probably like the crackers. She had almost put them into the boys' hands when I said "NO!"

She jumped back and looked at me like I was crazy. I quickly added that we have food allergies. After apologizing she headed back to her table with a look of both guilt and sadness. I called to her and said that I was sure they would love the crackers if I could just read the ingredients on the box. She had already thrown it away. Oh well. I hope I didn't scare her too badly when I yelled.

I've always been on the fierce side about what the boys eat. When Peter was little I had a strong impression that he shouldn't start solid food until the six-month end of the recommended window for that particular milestone. I was also neurotic about introducing new foods at least three days apart. I had no idea he had food allergies, I just felt like it was something I should do.

After he was tested (which happened after an allergic reaction and a trip to urgent care) I became, if possible, even crazier about what he ate. It wasn't just because I wanted him to have a healthy foundation, it was because I didn't want him to eat something that might kill him. The egg allergy isn't a big deal. He breaks out in hives (which admittedly doesn't sound fun) but that's it. And he even has a chance of outgrowing it. But the peanut allergy - that's scary. There's no real way to gauge how severe a peanut allergy is. Your first reaction might be mild and your second might send you into anaphylactic shock. We carry and know how to use an Epi-Pen, just in case.

I know that there are other much worse ailments in the world. So he can't have peanuts or eggs, it's not the end of the world. No, it's not. But it's amazing how many people give children food without asking their parents or even consider food allergies. I've had to specifically tell Nursery Leaders and Primary teachers what not to give him, or better yet, to let me know in advance so I can bring something for him that I know is safe. And I anticipate having to do the same with each new class he is in, both at church and at school.

Bryan pointed out that Cooper could have had the crackers. True, as far as we know Cooper doesn't have any food allergies, but cross-contamination is fear inducing.

Peter knows what he's allergic to, we taught him that as soon as we found out. He even talks about being a daddy someday and out-growing his allergies so that he will be able to eat peanut butter. (That's a little heartbreaking. He probably won't lose the peanut allergy.) And peanuts, and other major allergens, pop up in the weirdest places. Wal-Mart brand cottage cheese? Processed on equipment that also processes peanuts. Vanilla Wafers? Totally safe. Nilla Wafers? They have eggs.

Sometimes I imagine that Peter is on display in a zoo with a big plaque outside his cage that reads, "Please don't feed the Peter."

So, to that sweet grandma lady who just wanted to give the cute little boys a snack: thank you for your kindness, but no thank you. I'd rather not visit the emergency room today.

The Sham

*Warning* This will get stuck in your brain. Just so you know.

Freezer Burn

Last night and part of this morning were rough, but we all seem to be feeling better. Peter had the bug the worst, then Cooper, then me. Bryan seems to have escaped unharmed and was sweet enough to stay home from work this morning to take care of us.

Cooper's main symptom was a high fever, which is always a little scary. We administered Infant Motrin and then brainstormed about what else we could do to bring his fever down. Bryan had made some white grape juice popsicles for Peter the night before so we figured now was as good a time as any to give Cooper his first taste of some icy goodness.

It didn't work quite the way thought it would.





I promise he's okay, but he clearly was not a fan.

Silence is Golden... and Fleeting

Someone told me recently that men don't talk as much as women. I looked at her incredulously and said, "Then you've never met any of the men to which I am related."

My dad and my brothers all have the explaining gene. They like to tell you what certain things mean and why other things are the way they are and how they came to be. Bryan and his dad have a different variation of this same gene. They like to explain how things work, be it mechanically or politically. Peter seems to have gotten both versions. Even Cooper likes to explain things to us (often with great inflection and facial expressions), even though we don't speak his language.

I like to talk too, which means someone is almost always talking at my house. I'm a tad obsessed with building the boys' brains, so I've been reading since Peter was little about how to teach him. Many of the resources that I found said I should talk to my baby often, tell him what I'm doing throughout the day. So I did. I would talk about why I was chopping fruit or why the trees were changing color. Apparently I have some of that explaining gene too.

Peter's vocabulary is a testament to the success of this method. He correctly uses words and phrases like 'otherwise', 'injury', and 'speaking of'. I will gladly admit that I am proud of his verbal prowess.

I used to think it was silly and a little sad when I would hear other parents say something like, "Can't they be quiet for one minute? Why do they have to talk all the time?!" Don't we spend a great deal of time and energy teaching our children to talk? Why would we want them to be quiet?

Yup, that's what I thought. Until recently. While we've done a fabulous job equipping Peter with the ability to express himself clearly, we have failed to give him a mute button. What I mean is, Peter is always talking. ALWAYS. Yesterday in church I had to keep reminding him that it was not his turn to speak, it was his turn to listen. As that didn't stop him at all, we spent the remainder of stake conference standing in the back of the room. He was still talking, it was just too noisy for me to hear him.

I'll admit, I was pretty frustrated when we got home. I just wanted him to be quiet. Just for a few minutes so I could gather my thoughts and calm my nerves. But then I realized something. He was being quiet. He had climbed into my big comfy chair and was just sitting there, quiet. I thought I had hurt his feelings by insisting that he stop talking so I sat next to him to see what was wrong.

I asked if he was okay. He said no. Cue mommy guilt. I asked if his feelings were hurt. He said no. Cue mommy confusion. It was then that I kissed his forehead and realized that he was burning up. I grabbed the thermometer: 102 degrees. The rest of the evening was filled with shaking from chills, glassy eyes, vomiting, a priesthood blessing, sleep, and a broken fever. He said almost nothing from about 4:30 on.

I got my wish. He stopped talking. And I missed it. Of course.

I hope he feels better today. In part because I hate to see my children sick. But also because I miss his little voice telling me the profound and funny things that often issue forth from his brain. I'll take those explaining genes over silence any day.

Sloth: The Comeback Tour

Do you ever have a day where your brain is just fuzzy? Well, not actually fuzzy (because that would be gross), just not at peak performance? Yesterday was one of those days. Every so often I would rouse from my daze and wonder what the heck was going on. Was I tired? (Regularly.) Was I dehydrated? (Possibly.) Was I just having an out-of-mind experience? (Probably not.)

I felt like I was walking through brain fog for most of the day. My responses were slower than usual and my verbal intelligence was sadly diminished. Why is it that I seem so prone to sloth? Seriously. Wrath? No thanks. Gluttony? Not so much. Sloth? Yes please!

Bryan and I were talking about this a few days ago as we lolled on the couch and stared aimlessly at the TV. We easily fall prey to sloth. I think it's because we run so hard during the day that by the time the boys go to bed our get-up-and-go has gone. Usually I can stave it off until bedtime. But yesterday, from quiet-time on, I was a zombie. I did push myself long enough to wipe Cooper's half mushed peas off the dining room floor and throw his toys into a basket, but that's it. I was even too out of it to turn on the TV. Bryan had to work late and I had decided not to watch The Office so we could watch it together later, but I didn't even have the energy to push that little button that changes the TV from one mind-numbing channel to another. Now that's just sad.

Here's hoping that my brain is fog-free today! At least until bedtime.