...and making the switch to Blogger. The new home for this blog is here.

Thomas is a lot more vocal than his brother. He has found his voice, and it is LOUD. His cutest vocalizing has got to be his rolled r's. "Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" he trills. If he's fussing in the car and I reach back to hand him a cracker, the wailing abruptly changes to trilling. He and I are the only ones in the family who can make this particular sound, so it's become our special language, much to John's bewilderment. Happy r's are mid-range; excited r's are higher and louder. My personal favorite are the contented r's: these have no note at all and are emitted sotto voce, exactly like a purr.

He is not a cuddler like his brother. I spent months and months lugging John in a sling because he wouldn't let me put him down, and when I wore him around he snuggled in close to me. Thomas arches back away from one, fussing to be put down. But he still shows affection, in his own way; it's immensely gratifying to walk in the door after running a couple errands by myself and have a little baby pop up, all smiles, and scoot quickly across the floor to haul himself up on my knees and babble and grin until he gets picked up. If he's working at a new skill -- like moving the beads along the wires of the bead maze, instead of trying to pull them off and eat them -- when he finally gets the concept he gets all excited, turns from the toy and flings himself at me, shrieking. I catch him and hug him hard, laugh, and turn him back around, and he has another whack at the toy. This back-and-forth continues for some time. It's as if he's saying "This is NEAT, Mommy! Look at me!"

John's new favorite word is "indeed." Yes, you read that right. Sometimes I wonder about him.

Yes, we're still alive. No, a long explanation is not forthcoming, as it's late and I'm dead tired, an all-too-frequent combination around here when I finally make it to the computer. But here are a couple placeholder notes about the kiddos:

Thomas...
1. Is a biter. Spends much of his day with his mouth WIDE open, either making "ha-AAAAA" growls or babbling or shrieking (see 2) or gnawing on something (see 3). When that mouth closes, you'd better not be near it. I have some impressive indentations in my right forearm this evening.

2. Is a shrieker. He has finally caught on to the fact that his previous laid-back, everything's-cool shtick wasn't getting him enough attention. Rattling the windows and his mother's teeth does.

3. Is teething. The poor child is desperate for relief. He will walk up to a flat surface, like, say, the couch, do a perfect face plant, and chew.

4. Is enjoying his new-found skill of opening and closing doors. He often closes himself in a back bedroom and yells until rescued, when he beams and promptly closes himself in again. He has also discovered how to open the living room cabinets. 'Nuff said.

John...
1. Is already showing signs of the male knight-in-shining-armor tendency. For a while I'd been giving him a tiny dustpan and brush and encouraging him to clean up under the table after meals and snacks. It worked for a while, until he decided he was no longer afraid of the Dustbuster, and wanted to use that instead. Montessori might not approve, but hey, he was still cleaning up, so I let him have his way. Then he decided he had better things to do. I reminded him it was his job. He rebelled. I pushed. He pushed back. Mealtimes were getting ugly. Then, on one of those weird where-did-this-idea-come-from-anyway moments, I stood in the kitchen, clasped my hands together a la Sarah Bernhart, and said in as dramatically helpless a voice as I could muster: "Oh, help me, Mr. Dustbuster Man! My floor is so dirty! What shall I do? Help me, Mr. Dustbuster Man!"

And do you know, that little boy who had been so donkey-like determined not to budge, looked at me -- and shouted "I'll help you, Mommy! I make your foor keen!" He ran down the hall, came back triumphantly waving the Dustbuster, and got to work, sucking up every last crumb he could find -- both on the floor and in both highchairs, without being asked -- until the thing ran out of juice. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Dustbuster Man! My floor is so clean now!" I gushed. "You wewcome, Mommy," he said proudly, and trotted off to put the Dustbuster away.

2. There was going to be a 2, but Joe just came downstairs and turned off all the lights. I can take a hint.

(with apologies to Tom Bodet and Motel 6...)

I'm listening to an audiobook version of It's All Too Much in the car right now, and coincidentally am also in the throes of a major basement purging/reorganization effort. We've arranged the furniture down there to create a "learning room" for each of the boys, and now have to make the room for everything that will stock them. The storage room was no longer navigable and it was getting impossible to find anything. So, here we go again.

Joe and I were down there this afternoon during the kids' naps, emptying bins and sorting them into Throw Away, Give Away, Put Away and Storage piles. Then John started banging around his room, so Joe went up to investigate. He forgot to turn off the monitor before leaving. And in a moment I heard his voice: "John, get back in bed."

"Iz nodda bed, Daddy," said an impossibly small and babyish voice. I realized with a shock that it was John.

"Sh. Go to sleep."

"Iz nodda bed, Daddy. Iz nodda bed, Daddy. Iz nodda bed, Daddy," the tiny voice repeated, with calm determination. "Izza twactor."

"Okay, then, it's a tractor. Get in the tractor and go to sleep," said Joe.

I sat there listening, a sheaf of papers still in my hands, unmoving, fascinated. It's so easy for me to forget -- I've been translating John-speak for so long now that I hear it as English in my head, and I forget that for all his wide-ranging vocabulary and facility of expression, for all how big and grown he seems compared to Thomas, that although he's not "da ninnelyest" child in the house anymore, he is still very, very ninnel.

Busy day so far today. First was Mass. Thomas was fairly quiet until the Prayers of the Faithful. After a few prayers had been offered, there was a brief pause while Father waited to make sure no one else had something to say.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH waWOOga wahgah! Ba GEEGA! Bah!" shouted Thomas, waving his arms as his burblings reverberated through the tiny stone chapel.

Another brief pause. "I don't know whether we should say 'Lord, hear our prayer' or not," Father said, struggling manfully not to roar with laughter.

Next came breakfast at the local cafe with the boys' surrogate grandparents. John contentedly munched his scone and soaked up the adult conversation. (This always makes me nervous. Often adults don't realize how closely he's listening until they look over and see two eyes several sizes too big for their head.) Thomas flung Cheerios and bounced in his seat.

Next was a half-hour drive to a new park, ostensibly to meet some of the moms in the local Catholic homeschooling community. I've been on their e-mail list for a couple years now, but have yet to meet any of the moms on it, except for one who happens to be the La Leche League leader lady (say THAT ten times fast) and another whom I met at church (hi, Sarah!). So I was eager and excited to finally meet these folks, and find some wholesome kids for John to make friends with.

We found the park. Beautiful day. Lovely park. Lots of small children climbing around. My LLL friend was walking up in my direction. This is looking good! I thought, as I woke up a sleepy Thomas and bundled him into the stroller. Then she informed me 1) nobody else had come, and 2) she herself was on her way home, as she'd been there for an hour and her youngest had a messy diaper and her oldest was bored with no one to talk to.

Sigh.

I wandered the grounds with Thomas on my hip while John clambered about the play structure. I called Jen and chatted while sitting on a park bench and trying to keep Thomas from eating the phone. I shuffled over to the merry-go-round, sat down, and let Thomas crawl around it while I held one of his ankles and John ran over to push us. Turning slowly in a circle, scuffling my feet through the mulch and trying not to get dizzy, I moped for other moms. Did I mention how no one had come to the lake yesterday either?

Thomas' fussing escalated and I realized he was probably hungry. John threw a handful of mulch on another little boy and was removed swiftly from the scene, bundled into the stroller with his brother and wheeled away. I looked for a place to sit in the shade and feed them both. Up ahead was a likely-looking spot, on a small hill overlooking the park beneath some trees. As I made for it, John spotted the park fountain and asked for a closer look.

From there things grew steadily brighter. We found another bench by a spectacular wisteria arbor, through which we could watch the fountain. John ate his lunch next to me on the bench, swinging his legs. Thomas ate his in the stroller. When they were finished, we went up to the fountain; I lifted John up and held his waist while he leaned over to splash in the water and play in the side jets. From behind him I heard his giggling crescendo into belly laughter as the water droplets flew higher and drenched his whole front. When he turned around, his face was glistening, there were water beads all through his hair, and his eyes were shining.

And then, just when he couldn't have been any happier, up rode a park attendant in a John Deere Gator. Instant awe and adulation from a three-year-old who just so happened to be wearing his John Deere T-shirt. The attendant started cleaning out the fountain. I asked him if we could have a peek at his Gator when he was done. "Sure, if you'll supervise him, you can go on over now," he said, smiling.

So it wasn't a disappointing morning after all. It just didn't go according to my plans. But as I'm slowly learning, it's one thing when plans go awry because I'm thoughtless or lazy, and quite another when it's because Someone upstairs has a better idea.

Thursday is lake day, remember? And we went this time, thank you very much. Of course it was COLD -- we didn't get near the water and I wished I had brought sweatshirts! -- but John scarcely stopped digging and scraping and dumping to eat his lunch, and Thomas ate his first sand, and it was a beautiful day even if nobody else who was supposed to come came and I was shivering. We went, and we had fun.

...or is our eldest son, well, a bit odd?

Tonight in the living room for the rosary: Thomas on my lap, John stretched out on the couch next to me. Before the first Hail Mary they were... interacting. My decade sounded like "Holy Mary, Mother of--ow, not my hair! God, pray for us--leave his eye alone! sinners, now and at the hour of--GENTLE!"

"I'm strug-a-wing," said John, muffled through a sofa cushion. (NB: Two other entries of note in the John-English lexicon: Guh-wih-wah, which translates literally as "gorilla" but is apparently his word for "dinosaur," and Ack-chew-wee [actually], with which he prefaces all his self-corrections.)

The rosary ended. Joe took Thomas off to bed. (NB2: Did I mention? We've been sleep training Thomas for almost a week now. Evening routine: dinner, bath, pajamas, nurse on the couch during the rosary, off to his bedroom for two board books in the rocking chair, then lights out and a walk around the room singing, then into the crib. Daddy stays with him until he falls asleep, with occasional pats and shushings.) John reached for my hand and dragged me off to his room.

"What story would you like tonight, John?" I asked, bracing for the umpteenth rendition of "Pooh Invents a New Game."

"Da fone book," he replied, and heaved it over the railing into his bed. "You come up too and get in."

"Um, er, I do have to warn you, this won't be a very interesting read," I informed him, as I climbed dutifully up.

The child was unfazed. "Wead it," he commanded.

"Uh. Yeeeeeeeah. Okay, here are the white pages. These have the phone numbers for all the families in our area. And here are the yellow pages. These are the numbers for all the stores and businesses. Oh, here are the blue pages! These are the government agencies."

"Wead it," he repeated.

"What, do you want me to read all the listings?"

"Yes."

"O-kay then." And I proceeded to recite them, rattling off agencies as fast as I could in the hopes of boring him. What really happened was that I discovered lots of information I didn't realize the phone book had, like maps to (and of) local parks and attractions, many of which will be quite field-trip-worthy, and a list of upcoming events for the county through December. Finally he said "Daz enuff," and I laid the book on his dresser, with a mental note to write down the things I'd noticed.

Maybe this just means his mother is the one who's odd. I must get it from him.

For all my priding myself on my fluency in John-speak, I do have moments of total incomprehension:

John: Mommy, I had a zot.

Me: A what? A spot? Where, on your pants or your shirt?

John: No, Mommy, I had a zot.

Me (guessing, after a confused pause): Oh, a shot? (He'd been playing doctor with an empty medicine syringe earlier that day...)

John: (with great patience): Mommy. Das nod whad I said. I said I had a zot. A zot.

Me (praying quickly, and then in a flash of disbelief): A thought?

John (beaming): Yes. I had a zot.

Me (in great relief): Oh! Well, what was your thought?

John: I had a zot dat -- about dat we should do someting.

Me: And what was that?

John: Dat was my zot.

At the kitchen table today, eating lunch...

John: Mommy, may I have an echo, peez? May I have an echo?

Me: An echo? John, do you know what an echo is?

John: Yes. What's an echo? Can I eat it?

Scene: Thomas on the changing table, getting a fresh diaper. John standing by Thomas' head, whapping his little brother gently with a rolled-up pair of his socks.

Me: John, what are you doing?

John: I esdingish... I estdingishing Domas.

Me: You're what?

John: Esdingishing him.

Me: (incredulous) You're extinguishing him?

John: Uh-huh.

Me: John, do you know what extinguish means?

John: Yes. Yike fire.

Me: Fire?

John: Yes. Domas yike fire and I esdingishing him. (Whaps him again, to much baby giggling.)

6:37 AM. John opens his door and steps confidently out into the hallway. "Dere's da seven, Mommy!" he announces.

"John, the seven's in the wrong spot. It needs to be the first number. Go back to bed." He climbs back in, obediently, and I close the door behind me.

I stand at the kitchen counter, making Joe's lunch. Joe is in the shower. Thomas is starting to whimper into the monitor. And from behind John's door I hear the sound of cheerful, albeit tone-deaf, singing. I pause and listen.

"Manoor, manoor, manoooooooooooooor," he croons. "Manooooooor, manoormanoor...."

Scene, a kitchen table. Two little boys sit, one at either end, in matching booster seats. They eat their breakfast peacefully, the one scooping Cheerios out of a bowl, the other grabbing them off his tray. From the back of the house come the sounds of their parents discussing weekend plans.

Daddy: One thing we really need to do is go through the bedroom closets and take everything out... and throw it away.

Mommy: (laughs) I actually made quite a dent in Thomas' closet earlier this week and went through a lot of stuff.

We walk back into the kitchen. John looks up. "I wanna see da dent in Domases coset!" he says eagerly.

"Um, honey, that's what's called a figure of speech. It's not a real indentation, it just means I did a lot of work on a job," I explain.

"A dent IS an indendashun," John says gravely.

"Er, yes, it is. But--"

"I wanna see da indendashun!"

"It's a figure of speech, John," says Joe.

John looks at him. "I wanna see da figger of speech!"

Joe's parents were here last weekend. Every Kline visit involves some home improvement project, and this time it was the replacement of our blechy kitchen faucet. They happened to be getting a new kitchen themselves, and brought up their old sink. Turns out that a sink with rounded corners will not fit in a hole cut for a sink with square corners, so the sinks were not swappable. Our kitchen was temporarily out of commission, and was a royal mess, while Joe and his Dad discovered this fact and two kitchen sinks lay in our yard.

It was at this moment that John decided to be helpful. Dashing in from the outside, he ran to the open undersink cabinet and turned on the water. We leave the ensuing soggy scene to your imagination, and suggest that your imagination likely falls short of the reality.

Not to be outdone, Thomas watched all the commotion intently. And at the dinner table afterwards, his little arms shot out in a grand sweeping motion. Crash went his grandfather's wine glass to the floor. The last shattered pieces had hardly settled when those little hands flashed out again and grabbed his grandfather's placemat. Smash went the water glass, in hot pursuit of the wine. Joe spent the next twenty minutes in a slow dance with the shop vac while children and chairs were swiftly bundled to the other side of the room.

...one parent calls it a "weedwhacker" and one calls it a "weedeater"?

A. A child who calls it a "weedwhackadeeder."

That would be the sound of Mommy finally succumbing to the virus that has laid our little family waste, as Aunt Margaret succinctly put it. It's been so long since I've last been sick that I was beginning to think I was nigh-invulnerable. (All together, Tick fans! "Nigh? What the heck is nigh?")

It is gratifying to observe that when Mommy goes under, it takes three adults to do her job: one to handle John, one to handle Thomas, and one to clean the house/do the laundry/cook the meals/wash the dishes/get the groceries/etc/etc. Unfortunately, there have only been two spare adults about the premises, viz., Mom and Dad, so all three categories have suffered somewhat. John in particular is not taking my illness well, alternating between lovable concern ("I gif you hugs, Mommy, and dat will make you feel bedder") and flamboyant wailings and gnashings of teeth. So far the best cure for the latter has been throwing him outside with Grandpa to go haul firewood. Grandpa gives him the biggest logs he can carry, and when he's no longer able to carry them he rolls them along the ground.

Thomas is oblivious to Mommy's distress. He has discovered that he really likes solid food. We have since dubbed him The Baby that Ate New York City. Food is happy. Food is good. Sleep, not so much. I came into the kitchen this morning and Mom asked me how the night went. "Well, I got up to feed him three times, got up to rock him once (he had a bad bubble), and only had to bounce his Amby half a dozen times or so. The longest he let me sleep at one stretch was two hours, and I've been up since 5:00. He did great!"

Daddy comes home tonight. Thank you, God.

Christopher Robin had wheezles and sneezles, they bundled him into his bed.

Thomas is the third Kline casualty of this mystery virus. Of course he was fine when we went in for his six-month checkup on Monday. Tuesday he started running a fever. Wednesday he was miserable. Today he lost his voice and was reduced to hoarse little croakings and squeaks.

They gave him what goes with a cold in the nose, and some more for a cold in the head.

John hadn't quite finished his own prescription of antibiotics before we started dosing Thomas regularly with Tylenol and ibuprofen. Add that to his newest prescription change for his reflux and we've had quite the merry-go-round of medications.

They wondered if wheezles could turn into measles, if sneezles would turn into mumps; they examined his chest for a rash, and the rest of his body for swellings and lumps.

Of course now it's the eve of a Friday... will he get better or worse over the weekend, when there's no easy access to the doctor? Oh, and he seems to have extra-sensitive skin too, which is breaking out in a rash wherever he gets some solid food on himself. They gave us some prescription ointment for that too. Sigh.

They expounded the reazles for sneezles and wheezles, the manner of measles when new. They said "If he freezles in draughts and in breezles, then PHTHEEZLES may even ensue."

And I have a sinking feeling that although I've made it through the entire winter without getting sick once, this time there's no escape. John I could keep at arm's length; Joe kept his distance of his own accord. The baby, on the other hand, has no such courtesy and whenever I pick him up -- which is often, due to those irresistibly pitiful whimperings -- he's coughing directly into my face. I'm doomed.

I swore I'd never do it. Too humiliating, I said! Too cutesy-wootsy! Never never!

And yet yesterday they jumped into my shopping cart. I couldn't help it. Well, actually, as long as I'm confessing, I could help it, but somehow I didn't want to. I bought them with a clear head, in full possession of my mental faculties... I think. Maybe not. In which case I'm off the hook.

Anyhow, next Sunday, John and Thomas will be appearing in matching little Easter outfits... vests and oxford shirts and plaid pants. ARGH so cute.

John and I went out to do some yardwork this morning during the baby's nap. I clipped the old woody peony stems from around the porch swing and raked out the great drifts of dead leaves, while John scuffled merrily through the piles and I pretended to be mad at him for "messing up my leaves," which he thought great fun.

The pretense abruptly stopped when he stomped through the new peonies, just showing a few inches above the ground. He was walking across the flowerbed and stumbled over the brick edging, smashing some of the flowers he had been warned away from. "John, come on! Don't step on the flowers!" I scolded, before I could stop myself.

Looking up, he said calmly, "I'm sorry, Mommy. I'm trying to be careful."

He was instantly enfolded in a hug by a repentant Mommy. "Oh, honey, I know," I said, stroking his hair.

"I forgive you, Mommy," he said.

I'm still recovering from that one, and here it is almost 9 PM...

Thomas, that is. After many days of false starts and lots of rocking back and forth and shrieking, he is now officially mobile. The only trouble is, he's going backwards. It makes him so mad to get farther and farther away from a toy he's trying to get to...

At the present moment, the toy he's trying to get to is his father's foot. Joe is lying sick on the living room floor. John is swarming over him, shouting that he and Daddy are stuck up the Six Pine Trees and can't get down. Thomas is flapping arms and legs for all he's worth and maneuvering steadily away from them into the kitchen, rump first.

Excuse me while I go throw a certain hyper toddler outside.