What Happened?

I've said this before, but I think I mean it this time:  the blog is winding down.  It's not that there aren't amazing stories about these kids still to be told - given how hilarious they both are, occasionally even intentionally.  It's mostly just that, well, now Finn can read.

And that considerably cuts down on my material.

As much as I'm sure he would love to read about all of the various places on this planet upon which he has deposited poop, and while I'm even more sure he'd want his classmates to also read about said poop deposits, I'm not sure I'm ready to answer the kinds of questions his discovery of this blog are sure to bring about.

I know this will crush all of my reader in St Helena, but I think I'm hanging up the poop stories and calling it a day.  This has been a great way to both share just a tiny slice of the joy of these kids, as well as perhaps relieve a little stress, but I don't really need that latter outlet any more and will find other ways to share.

Then again, maybe I'll just hand the reigns of this bad boy to Edie to write.  She's definitely got material, if her lengthy conversations with both dolls and dogs are any indication. 

It's just a shame she won't have her entire life and all of her fecal adventures documented like her brother. 

Or is it?

Wishlist

Do you remember Christmas Lists?  The one time a year when you got to write down everything you wanted, knowing that getting it all was a long shot, but that's what Christmas was all about, right?  You took a shot, and you were happy if you got any of it.

In my house growing up, we did this on Thanksgiving weekend.  As we recovered from turkey and green bean casserole, we informed Santa about our most pressing needs.  Kitty's family apparently did not have such date-driven process and began their Christmas lists in August, but despite the heresy implied therein, the intent was still the same:  you had one shot, and you took it.

Changing subject a bit, in the past few weeks, Amazon.com has taken a lot of heat for their work culture.

This is nothing new for them - they've long been criticized for working people to their limits, whether it's the fulfillment centers in central Pennsylvania or their corporate offices in South Lake Union.

I don't care about any of that.

All of those "issues" have created corporate results that I embrace (as a Seattleite, they have driven my property rates up 20% in the last year, so they're AWESOME).  What I have an issue with is the pervasive cancer that is the Amazon Wishlist.

Finn's #1 priority upon returning home every day is his Amazon wishlist.  If a conversation with him does not include the word "wishlist" within 3 minutes, it means he's playing you.  I'll ask him how his day was at camp and the response will, within 7 words, come back to a new Lego set that he needs on his wishlist.

I know that I'm supposed to say that this is terrible, from a hippie, non-consumer-driven perspective, and it really is incredibly annoying if you don't enjoy the word "wishlist", given that this is now every third word that comes out of his mouth, it's also kind of awesome.

Amazon has done an amazing job at cross-merchandising - so amazing that I only need to log into the website and hand it over to Finn, before he's got 400 items in his wishlist.  Unfortunately, this now means that I need to pay much better attention to what he's actually adding.

Who would have thought we'd need parental controls on shopping?

Stupid "Adult Legos" (I'm sorry...)

Party Guy

One of the benefits of Finn's improving reading skillz is the fact that we now have someone else in the family that enjoys reading the Highlights magazines that I pathologically steal from my dentist's office.

Everyone loves the preachy morality of Goofus & Gallant (that Goofus), but I'm happy to see Finn also diving into the other articles.  Just tonight, we were reading an article about the global seed bank in the Arctic Circle.  After discussing how it would help the world replant vital crops after a natural or man-made disaster, we started talking about the kinds of crops they store.

We settled on corn as the most important, due to its versatility, its deliciousness, and because, "You can make chips out of it, and chips are really important for parties."

Any kid whose first thought at the end of the world is, "I'd better make sure I've got enough snacks for the party," is alright with me.

Party on, Finny!

Good Job

Kids these days.  All entitled, thinking that they're all special flowers and can do no wrong.  Don't want to work for nothin'.

It's the parents' fault, you know.  Coddling them.  Telling them how smart they are.  Wiping their behinds for them.

It's despicable.  I won't play that game.

Instead I make my kids tell me how awesome I am.  In fact, I'll do almost anything for Edie just to hear her tell me, "Good job, Daddy."

Seriously, anything.

"Edie!  Edie!  Watch Daddy jump up and touch the ceiling!  Did I do a good job?!?"
"Edie!  Edie!  Watch Daddy blow out his cheeks and cross his eyes!  Did I do a good job?!?!"
"PLEASE TELL ME I DID A GOOD JOB!!!"

Don't judge.  Her pronunciation of "good job" is the most adorable thing that has ever invaded an ear-hole.  I'd punch myself in the face with a brick if I thought it would earn me a "Good job, Daddy!"

As an aside, parenting pro tip #1:  keep a plastic bucket in your yard at all times.  It will be helpful when you lock your family outside during one of your annual trips to the gym - specifically when your son announces that he needs to go #2.

Parenting pro tip #2: teach your son to be ok using a bucket for a toilet in the backyard.  Just in case.

Good job, Daddy.

Two Notes from Finn

One for my back and one for my front.

I'll let you decide which is which.

Finn's Sister

There is no more polarizing figure in this house today than Finn's sister.

Let's get this straight:  Finn LOVES his sister.  He makes sure that he says good morning to her every day.  He makes sure that she gets what she needs.  He comforts her when she's crying.  Tonight when we were watching TV and she wanted to snuggle?  He stuck out his arms and cried, "Get over here!"

Obviously Kitty and I love Finn's sister as well.  How could we resist?  She knows all of the lyrics to "I Love Rock n Roll" by Joan Jett and even screams "Yeah!" at the end.  She's seriously metal.

The person who can't stand Finn's sister?  Edie.  Don't even get her started on Finn's sister.  She HATES Finn's sister.

Every morning, I'll ask, "Who's Finn's sister?" and she'll reply, "I NO LIKE FINN'S SISTER!"

Because she's two.  And speaks all in caps.

Ah well, I suppose that once you've reached 4 people + 2 cats + 300 stuffed animals + 48 princess items, there's bound to be someone folks don't like.  Statistics.  In our house, it's Finn's sister.

Hopefully someday she and Edie will get along, but until then, we'll just sing along with her as she sticks another dime in the jukebox, baby.  And then we'll try to explain what a jukebox is.

So metal.

Rhino

It would appear that we have a rhino problem.

I have no idea where it came from, only that one night a couple of weeks ago, Edie announced at dinner that there was a rhino and it was making her "freak out".

And when she said "freak out", she totally freaked out, opening her eyes up wide and throwing her hands in the air.

At first we thought that maybe we had a wino problem - she's still working on her pronunciation - and that wouldn't have been a surprise, since we were probably drinking wine right at that very moment.  But no, she clarified that it was a rhino.

This was a surprise.  We were not aware that we had a rhino, but it seemed serious.  Even more serious?  Apparently the rhino was on Tango's body.

If there's anyone that's prone to freak outs that ultimately result in bodily fluid discharge, it's Tango, so we quickly checked him for rhinos, but came up empty. We were soon to learn that our rhino is not to be so easily caught - he's a covert genius and master of camouflage.  While he's since been reported on our ceiling, in the sink, and in Edie's crib, I still have yet to spot him.

Luckily, the family has come to terms with our newest house guest and he/she no longer makes anyone freak out.  I'm just thankful that the rhino doesn't use our yard like a Bonnaroo port-a-potty, unlike Edie's other nemeses, the raccoons.

That would most certainly make me freak out.

Seven

Seven years ago today, I earned the right to be grumpy.  Prior to that, I was just an a@#$hole.  As of 7 years ago tonight, I'm a "dad".

Dear Finn,

As you complete your seventh year, I want to make sure that you know this:  you are an amazing person.   And I'm not just saying that because you can read this now (though that doesn't hurt).

Allow me to be more specific:

• You are an amazing big brother, always making sure your sister has the appropriate dosage of Pro-Nuggets.
• You have an amazing sense of humor and you make me laugh every day.
• You are amazingly genuine, open and insightful about who you are as a person;  I'm so proud of your ability to talk about your vulnerability and what makes you happy and what makes you sad.  There are many grown-ups that could learn from you.
• You're really good at Legos.  Like, scary-good.

When we were joking around on the walkie talkies the other day, you said that I "make your life fun."  I hope so - it's one of my success criteria, along with keeping you from picking your nose and getting you to lean over your plate.  It would be good to know that I'm succeeding in at least one of those.

I'm going to keep this note short - I just deleted about 300 words - in the hopes that you'll read this note sooner than later.  I'd also encourage you to read other stuff on this blog, but unfortunately most of it is self-indulgent garbage.  But if you're bored, give it a shot.  As boring as it probably is, it's all for you.

I love you, Finny.

Happy birthday!!!

-Daddy

Pro Nuggets

For all of the grief that I give Kitty about the supplements that she's force feeding this family or the amount of money that we spend on "bone broth" soup bones from cows that were educated at Oxford and got in at Amazon pre-IPO, you can't debate her intent.  Nobody cares more about making sure her family is happy and healthy than her and she pours every once of her energy into the task - along with about $300/month in chewable animal shaped probiotics.

Fun fact:  chewable animal shaped probiotics are apparently as addictive to a two year old as playing Minecraft on crack.

Not that I've seen that many two year old crack-smoking Minecraft junkies.  This is Washington.  All of our two year olds smoke pot.

But I digress:  Edie is INCREDIBLY addicted to probiotics, which she adorably refers to as "pro-nuggets."  As in, "Baby needs her pro-nuggets, Daddy", as she nervously scratches her arm and stares through me...

The first thing she asks for when I come into her room in the morning?  "Pro-nuggets in my bowl, daddy?"  The first thing she asks for when we get home from daycare?  "Pro-nuggets in my bowl, daddy?"  She'll stand next to you in the kitchen jumping up and down, waving her arms, with a huge smile on her face yelling "PRO-NUGGETS!" whenever you appear to be approaching the general probiotic staging area.

I'd say this can't be good, but there is plenty of research suggesting you can't overdo this stuff.  In fact, I'll bet her "gut flora" could kick my ass.

After which she would calmly step over me, pull my wallet out of my pocket, lean down and caress my cheek and say, "Don't worry, Daddy, Baby just needs her pro-nuggets."

Persuasion

After nearly seven years of an impressive steadfast refusal to try any and all kid activities that his mother and I have tried to push him - REALLY PUSH HIM - into, the last six months have been a banner time for ol' Finny.  Who knew that it could take a kid 6.9 years before he was willing to learn to swing on a swingset by himself?  Or put his face in the water in a swimming pool?  Or ride a bike?

It was worth the wait, because he's now happily doing all of those things and the one, arguably most important thing, that he's been avoiding the most:  reading.

At the beginning of the school year, he would struggle to finish five pages in 20 minutes.  Last night, he read all 50 pages of Red Fish, Blue Fish in under 10.  That's a long freakin' book and I'm incredibly proud of how hard he's worked on his reading to get there.

But that's only the tip of the iceberg.  At school this week, they were working on writing persuasive letters.  Apparently, Finn's was for me.  I've included both a photo & a transcript translated into common English, since while his reading is great, his spelling might still be a little advanced for many of you.

Dear Famous Blogger, 

Can I have an iPad? 

#1:  Because you have two.
#2:  I won't have to bug you any more.
#3:  Why do you need two?
#4:  What will you do with the other one? 

So please can I have an iPad? 

Sincerely,
Finn

It's tough to argue with that logic.  I think the kid just earned himself an iPad - the old one, of course.  After all, why do I need two?

Now I apparently need to write a persuasive letter of my own.  The topic?  "The Importance of Flushing Your Poop."

TWO!

I'm way overdue for this post, but that's what happens when your life is being run by a two year old.  They're terrible.

Or so I've heard.  Mine is amazing.  You haven't lived until Edie has informed you via song that it's all about the bass, 'bout the bass, no "twebble".

Her "Mama Mia" that elegantly segues into counting from 5 to 10 is sick, as well.  The girl has jams far beyond her two years.

Happy Belated Birthday, little girl!  I alternately can't believe it's been two years since I was huddled under a blanket, shivering, on the day that you came home from the hospital suffering from post-partum Daddy flu, or that it's ONLY been two years since that day, given that the recent flights with you to and from Florida felt like five years each.

However the math works out, know that you're one of the three best things that have ever happened to me and that I can't wait to hear what songs you're going to sing next.

Hopefully they're about something other than your butt.

The Mad Pooper

Someone is pooping in our toilets and I can't figure out who it is.  This mystery is frustrating not just because I have cameras in each of our bathrooms (in addition to most public restrooms in the Greater Seattle area), but also because this Mad Pooper either does not know how to, or simply does not care to, flush.  Or use toilet paper.

I'd accuse Edie, but I know exactly where her poop ends up.  I'd accuse Kitty, but we all know that grown women don't poop.  I'm pretty sure it's not me, so that leaves Finn.

He insists it's not him.

And why would it be?  It's not like I watch him walk out of the bathroom without washing his hands, only to walk in 2 minutes later and see a giant piece of poop in the toilet, right?  I mean, I would expect this if I also watched him sit on the toilet after waking up in the morning and magically pee out from under the toilet seat all over the bathroom floor.  But who would do that?

Because that would be crazy.  And really gross.

As Finn was cracking a joke last night about how no one needs to be taught how to poop, I couldn't help but think of those toilet-paper-less poops in the toilet.  

I'll unmask you at some point, Mad Pooper, I swear.

But first I need to clean up this mysterious puddle of pee on the floor...

DIE-REE-AH!

There is nothing funny about being woken up on successive nights to the sounds of your kids puking in their beds.  Stripping wet sheets, finding big bowls, running the washing machine for 48 hours straight.  Add to that multiple days off work due to the ejection of bodily fluids from the other end, and it ain't a pretty sight.

On the other hand, there's nothing NOT funny about your almost-two-year-old daughter adopting "diarrhea" as her favorite word - screaming it at the dinner table, in the car, at passersby.

It's impossible not to crack up when she yells DIE-REE-AH!  at the top of her lungs while you're out at dinner, until you realize that everyone in the restaurant is looking at you laughing at this, in the midst of the piles of food that your kids have thrown all over the table, floor and empty beer bottles, slowly understanding that you're now "that" family.

And then immediately not caring as soon as another cry of DIE-REE-AH! echoes out across the dining room.

I'm sure it'll get old eventually, particularly now that her method for getting our attention is to interject, "die-ree-uh?" into any conversation that we're having.

But then again, I'm over 40 and giggling as I type this, so....  I won't hold my breath.

New Year's Rockin' Eve

There was a time in our lives when New Year's Eve meant glowsticks, tie dyes and epic Phish concerts - sometimes running all night - but those days are long gone.

Or so I thought.

I present, The Ninja Family New Year's Rockin' Eve 2014:

Yes, those are both of our children, rocking out to Phish live, via the wonders of the Intertubes.   And that was the mellow moment.  The rest of the evening was full of family glowstick drum circles...

... and dance parties - during which Edie would spin like a veteran Deadhead and Finn would approach and kindly offer, "Shall we dance?", which was my cue to pick him up and throw him onto the couch.

While we fully expected them to immediately lose interest in their parents' weird hippie obsession, Edie made it through the second set and Finn made it the distance, through East Coast New Year's and to the encore.  And he wasn't fakin' it.  I mean, look at this face!

As the night was winding down and Finn and I were laughing and messing each other's hair to our favorite mangled Phish lyrics ("I saw you with a chicken sub in your hair!"), I realized that this was what it was all about.  Being able to share an experience like this - one that was so formative for their mom and me, and such a part of our lives for so long - is transcendent.  Even if they were sober like a couple of losers.

One of these days, these guys are going to grow up, hop into a Virgin Galactic shuttle and head off to a Phish show on Mars for New Year's Eve, ditching us to watch alone on our couch (which will probably be made with GMO's; stupid future), but until then, I'm going to savor every New Year's Eve we have together.  We're going to buy as many glowsticks as we can afford, watch us some serious Phish, and turn our TV room into a crazy "mush pot," as Finn would put it.

Shall we dance?

Should auld acquainta... NO RACCOONS!

As another year winds down and as my lovely children have finally been stuffed forcefully in their beds with peppermint popcorn crammed lovingly in their cry-holes, it's time for reflection on the important question that I must imagine all parents ask themselves this time of year:  What did I yell more in 2014, "lean over your plate!" or "stop screaming or you're getting a time out!"?

And is it appropriate to immediately follow an exclamation point with a question mark?

The answer to both questions, of course, is "who freakin' cares?"

Whether it's Edie's adorable demands for everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) within 10 square feet of her, to "READ A BOOK!" or her oddly persistent fear of raccoons, it's been a great year.  Whether it's the fact that Finn is finally gaining confidence in his reading and writing or the fact that he hasn't taken that opportunity to write "BUTT" on everything we own, it's been a great year.

Yeah, we failed in our second attempt at organized sports and spent way more time (and gambling money) at the hospital than anyone should have to.  And yeah, there's still WAY too much poop in this house not ending up in toilets and/or getting flushed, but screw it.  The kids are healthy, they're happy, and I'm so utterly spent that I don't even get to update this thing as much as I'd like.

Even if I haven't written it down, at least I'll remember it - with the three brain cells that I haven't killed by drinking myself to sleep each night in total exhaustion.

So here's to a roller coaster 2014 and to new adventures and challenges in 2015!  Even though we've turned many corners this year, I know that we've still got a long & exciting road ahead.

We're gonna need more beer.

'Tis the season... for Raccoons!

It is fair to say that among the Scrooges of the Ninja/Rookie household, I am typically the Scroogiest.  From my rampant disdain for glittery junk that does nothing other than stick to my cheek inappropriately before important meetings and clog the vacuum cleaner to my disregard for dressing up for costumey occasions in anything more than a different colored baseball hat, I much prefer to spend my holidays sitting in the corner feeling superior and judging you all.

While drinking Egg Nog.  Because Egg Nog is the bomb.

Case in point, while Kitty starts Christmas planning in March, with "Stocking Stuffer Season" in full swing by July, I hold fast to a No-Christmas-Before-Thanksgiving rule.  This means no Christmas Lists get written, no Christmas Carols get sung and certainly no Christmas Lights go up until after the turkey is put away and both the gravy and Daddy are drank/drunk.

But it was harder this year to resist the draw of Christmas in the fall.  I don't think it was the October Christmas displays at Rite Aid (though those are getting better), I think it was the ridiculous explosion of Halloween and Thanksgiving lights that everyone in Seattle has suddenly adopted.  Thanksgiving lights?!  We even had a neighbor that had a giant inflatable turkey in their yard, holding a knife & fork... What does that even mean?!?  Is he eating turkey?  Or is he implying that he's going to eat people?

I have no idea, but we had to go down nightly to analyze & debate it.  Unfortunately, we may have broken our daughter of holiday lights in the process.  On one trip down to the giant inflatable cannibal turkey, we ran into a gang of ruffian raccoons that tried to run us off their turf.   I thought we handled it well, with few "We're not scared of you!  We're leaving because we want to, not because you're making us!" back over our shoulders, however now whenever Edie sees Christmas lights, she just starts repeating, "No raccoons, no raccoons" like a soldier with PTSD and won't let us go anywhere near them.

It would be a shame for someone who has shown herself to be a big animal lover to develop a critter phobia like that so early on, particularly one that impacts our ability to rock out to some Christmas lights, so we'll need to work on it.  And apparently we'll work on it by buying a life sized stuffed tiger that we'll name Mr. Pickles and that will also terrify her.  We like to fight fear with more fear.

Nothing is more adorably sad than hearing your daughter yell, "No Pickles, No Pickles!" over and over again at your enormous stuffed tiger.

Whatever.  She'll get over it, eventually.  She's already gotten up the courage to punch him in the head, so hugs are the natural next step.  Right?  Right.  Finn currently drags Mr. Pickles all around the house with him and sleeps with him in his bed every night, so it's not like she can avoid him.

So while we work on that, at least we can enjoy our own Christmas lights, since I went against type and put them up weeks ago.  Given how ridiculously sore I now apparently get from the act of putting up Christmas lights, I'm extremely happy that I did it so early.  This whole holiday would not at all be worth it if I had to climb up in that stupid tree and take them down again just a couple of days later.

Here's to Christmas lights in July!  Ho! Ho! Ho!

From the hip

Greatest.  ER picture.  Ever.

Do you know what Toxic Synovitis is, aside from the most kickass punk band to ever crawl out of the Athens underground?   You should, because according to the internets, it's a very common ailment affecting children between the ages of 3-10.  And I had never heard of it before last Friday either.

The good thing is that Toxic Synovitis can be treated with Ibuprofen and rest.  Or, alternately, it can be treated with a trip to the ER, surgery under general anesthesia, and two days in the hospital.

Being concerned about money, we opted for the latter.  Of course.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...

After being home sick on Wednesday, but making a full recovery on Thursday and going to school & karate, we were surprised when Finn suddenly announced that he couldn't climb the stairs as we were going to bed Thursday night.  Assuming that this was just Standard Finn Manipulation protocol, I sighed, picked him up and carted him off to bed.

When he was still complaining that he couldn't walk on Friday morning, we went into full on parent-mode, deploying the most effective tool in our arsenal:  fear.  We told him that if he couldn't walk, we'd have to go to the doctor, assuming that he'd snap right up and start brushing his teeth.  When that didn't happen, we were out of ideas and we scheduled the doc appointment.

While waiting for the appointment, his condition worsened, his fever spiked again and he began crying about pain in his groin with any shift in his body position.  The doctors ruled out a groin strain and recommended we get x-rays done at Children's Hospital, just to rule out a bone issue or infection.  No problem - it's across town, but we have 3 hours before we need to pick up Edie, so should be plenty of time to get some x-rays and get back.

This is how parents who have never had to take their children to the ER think.  It's all sunshine and roses, until it's 12 hours later and you're in an abandoned, dark, surgery reception area in an empty hospital, pacing holes in the floor because the surgeon was supposed to contact you 30 mins ago and your son is under general anesthesia and it was only supposed to be a groin strain and you only agreed to this whole stupid procedure because the doctor scared you into it with fears of infection, even though there wasn't much fluid in the ultrasound, which followed the x-ray, which followed the blood test and christ you're tired and your wife looks like she's about to throw up and you hope that your sister-in-law is still OK watching your daughter while you silently freak out, worrying that the last time you're going to have touched your son is when you were helping him hold his wiener steady so he could pee in the bedpan, in this dark, empty hospital with its ghostly footsteps echoing in the distance.

Or something like that.

When the surgeon does finally call and tell you that everything is fine, that he extracted a little bit of fluid from his hip and it's not infected and while you're not supposed to see him, because he's still sleeping, hell it's two in the morning, so come on over and we'll get you into a room - that's when you exhale.  And you promise yourself that you will never, ever take a single minute with your son for granted and you chuckle about that whole "holding his wiener" thought, and you smile and head home to let your sister-in-law off the hook while your wife spends the night in the hospital.

The next day, as you and your wife switch places, you have the most amazing day with your son.  He's completely healed and you race around Children's Hospital - which, incidentally, is THE hospital to be in if you can choose, where mac & cheese is always on the menu, where there's a Starbucks on every floor and where they bring you free unopened Legos if you but ask - chasing & tickling each other until you're both exhausted and making your son laugh so hard he pees in his pants instead of in the bottle they're trying to get him to use.

It's heaven.  And it lasts about two hours, before you're yelling at him for some small offense like spilling his juice or neglecting to flush the toilet.  Just like that, everything returns to normal, except you're still stuck in the hospital.

Now we're home and Finn wishes we were back at Children's, where the bed is adjustable, the TV is always on, and his Dad buys him cake pops from Starbucks whenever he asks.  And his Dad is reading articles like the one linked above stating that Synovitis can be cured with Ibuprofen while he waits for the hospital bill and wonders what kind of kickback the surgeon gets for recommending all of the tests.

But that doesn't matter.  His son is healthy and happy.  Or at least he was healthy & happy until he faceplanted running down the street last night with his ams zipped into his jacket, leaving nothing but his nose to break his fall.

Luckily it was just a little bloody - no lasting damage - and we were able to bypass a second trip to Children's.  Better luck next time, Finny.

Low Tech

When asked whether his kids enjoyed the amazing technology devices that he had created - specifically the iPad - Steve Jobs famously replied, “They haven’t used it. We limit how much technology our kids use at home.”

He was apparently not alone in the world of technology leaders - lots of folks that spend their days living and breathing tech, limit the amount of interaction their kids have with those same electronic devices.

That's admirable.  And totally freaking impossible.

I mean, we do monitor the screen time Finn gets at home, but temptation is everywhere!  Especially when you're hung over!  Or busy!  Or feeling like just maybe being a grown-up for just a minute and pretending that your life is actually your own, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

While we attempt to limit the technology to just 30 mins every other day (plus those extra-special qualified situations), increasingly technology is sneaking in around the corners.  Finn now has iPad apps for both his reading homework and his math homework.

Who wants to read books when you can read an app, particularly an app that reads for you in a far more attractive voice than your clumsy Dad's?  I know I don't.  I wish Finn's reading app could keep me up to date on all of my important reading.  By which I mean celebrity gossip and Derek Jeter fanzines.

But I digress.

While the concerns about addiction and impact on cognitive ability linger, conversations with Finn have gotten more... interesting, of late.

For instance:

• When I informed him that his behavior was making me frustrated one morning and tried to engage him in a discussion about how we could fix that, he set me straight.  "I think you just need to meditate, Daddy."
• Last week, after we told him that we would no longer be reminding him of his chores, we asked him what might need to be cleaned up before he could have dessert.  Without missing a beat, he replied, "If I told you, then I'd be reminding you."
• As his mom was pressing him for details on a story that he was telling that wasn't quite ringing true, he stopped her dead and asked, "Why are you asking questions?  You have all of the information that you need."  And then went back to playing Legos.

This will not do.  I did not intend to have these types of conversations until our children were much older.  Edie just showed us that she can count to eleven (though to be fair, I'm pretty sure she has no idea what she's saying).  I'm at risk of being outsmarted by my children before either of them reach the age of 10.

Either I need to start killing their brain cells with technology or I need to double down on killing my own brain cells with beer so I no longer care.  At the moment, it's a toss-up.  

Maybe we'll do both.

Hot Stuff

I've picked on Baby Led Weaning plenty - and it deserves to be picked on, because it never delivered on its promise of teaching a kid how to eat all kinds of fun and exciting adult foods, such as anything that isn't cheese or pasta related - and while I still spend WAY too much time cleaning up all kinds of squishy, crunchy, smeary food off the dining room floor after every meal, there is one thing that it has taught Edie to do.  And it's something that I value quite a bit.

That woman can eat some heat.

Finn has never been fond of hot foods - neither caliente or picante.  He will immediately spit out anything that is even approaching hot in temperature, even if it hasn't actually touched his tongue, based purely on an offhand mention that it might be hot or the presence of a single wisp of steam.  He's slightly better with spicy, making a single concession to my love of spicy foods by sharing 1, maybe 2, but no more than 3 Jalapeño potato chips with me.  Anything more than that will result in cries of "too spicy!" and maybe some tears.

I'll bet Edie could drink Finn's tears if I were to boil them for 30 minutes.  I'm not sure she has any temperature receptors in her mouth at all.  Where Finn would cringe, Edie looks me dead-in-the-eye and matter of factly shovels more scorching hot food into her open cry-hole, while mentioning in a slightly bored fashion, "hot."

Not having to spend 15 minutes blowing on each bite of luke warm pasta is nice, but I've been leery about really unleashing the spicy on her.   This hesitation is apparently unwarranted.

While the family was on a beautiful fall excursion a couple of weekends ago at one of Seattle's prettier parks, Kubota Garden, we took a moment to check out a koi pond in which a turtle was sunning himself.  It was a great view, so I let go of Edie's hand for a second so I could snap off a couple of pictures.  I turned around to call her to come up to the pond for a look and that's when another idyllic sight struck me:  Edie with a dirty, half-empty Taco Bell hot sauce packet hanging out of her mouth.

As I screamed, dropping my camera and rushing over to wipe the disgusting red goo off of her face, her hands and her shirt, she just stood there, looking calmly at me, as if to say:

"Who's the baby now, old man?"

What's Your Damage, Edie?

If the anecdotal evidence poured into our ears by our friends as we prepared for child #2 was to be believed, Edie was guaranteed to be the polar opposite of her brother - destined to be completely chill, to enjoy entertaining herself for hours, and to be potty trained by week 2.  Of course, our friends are all drunks, so it was not at all surprising when Edie turned out as a 150% more hyper version of her already insane brother.


But then something happened.  The ship turned.  Or maybe our memory of Finn's maturation is faulty, but she is now totally happy sitting in the corner by herself, eating rocks and writing on the wall with crayons.

Maybe she developed self-reliance when we weren't looking.  Or maybe she developed it because we weren't looking.  

It's not perfect.  Like I said, she draws on the walls, the furniture, me and Kitty, and the cats - which was a habit Finn never picked up - and she does it while staring directly at us, and smiling.  So, while she's cool hanging out by herself, she's also kind of a jerk.  But a confident, self-reliant jerk - the world will be her oyster.  

At daycare, Edie has two little friends, both born within a month of her.  Her daytime Mommy informed us the other day that she is now the "ringleader" of this tiny little adorable gang.  

That is an absolutely terrifying prospect.  My daughter is turning into a Heather.

I wonder if she'll be sitting in her college dining hall, throwing whatever food she doesn't like onto the floor while staring her dining companions dead in the eyes over threats of "time-outs"?  Or still be expressing her feelings in a reasonable and measured way, by punching the guy who lovingly picks her up at the end of a long day directly in the face?

Actually, as long as that guy is no longer me, I might be ok with that.  You go, Edie.