martinimade

Flappy McFlappypants:

The boy is now nine months old. I find this hard to believe, too. Still, there it is.

While he appears to be in the crawling position, he does not, in fact, crawl. He can pretty effectively get from one place to another through a combination of squirming, scooting, stretching and flapping. He's a flapper, that boy. When excited, you'd think he was a bird, madly flapping its little arms in order to get some lift. It is hysterical. It will be less so if he's still doing at two or three, but now, it's a hoot.

The girl remains amusing, mostly. Cute story: On Saturday, I was in Flappy's room trying to convince him to take a nap. The door was shut, which the Diva will finally recognize as a sign that she should be quiet, so as not to wake her brother and incur parental wrath. As I was rocking the boy, I hear her come up the steps. "Mommy?" she whispers, so quietly I can just barely hear her. I don't respond. A few seconds later, a drawing in yellow crayon inches its way under the door. It is followed by a pencil and some tiny fingers, which feel around for the drawing, as if to make sure it made it OK. I hear footsteps walk to her room. A minute later, the hand is back, sneaking under the door and searching for the pencil and drawing. I am doing my best to not laugh. When I finally get the boy down, I ask her what it was all about.

"It is daddy's prescription," she says. "I need you to fill it at the store."

Daddy, for the record, isn't sick. The two of them had been playing with her doctor's kit when I went up to make the boy rest.

Two seconds later -- "Actually," she says. "It is sunshine for my brother's room."

Too. Cute.
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Two kid related links -- first, Dr. Parker, who I heart, explains why a little mess may turn out to be a good thing. And, second, because I needed something else to feel guilty about now that I can no longer feel guilty about how dusty my house is, if you don't breastfeed, your kid may be an alcoholic later in life.