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My Three Sons

February 4th, 2009

Ok, I realize that Dudley is not biologically a son, and yes, I know that for all of his quirks, he is far from Human.   But really, he is more work than Cooper and Kenny put together some days, so I have come to accept that a big piece of my daily pie is cut out for The Dog.

I haven’t written very specifically about Dudley in a while, so for my newer readers out there, he is an almost 5-year-old,  85 pound weimaraner.   For those of you who know nothing about weimaraners, imagine a sleek gray Tasmanian devil who truly believes that your bed is his bed and your lap is his lap and any food left unattended for more than .5 seconds is truly his food.   Kenny is mighty in love with him, and I realized today that Cooper is following fast:   while he calls me, Casey and Kenny “Dada!” indiscriminately, this morning he looked at Dudley and shouted, “Dud-la!”   I wasn’t buying until it ensued throughout the day – quite distinctively different from the generic “Dada” I swear, though occasionally morphing into “Dud-ee!” and “Dag-dee!”   Lucky dog.


Though often very bad, Dudley tries hard to be a good boy, and is nearly always a good sport to most any game Kenny rallies him into.   Today I ran upstairs to get Cooper up from his nap, and came down not three minutes later to this scene:


“Dudley’s hiding, Mama!” crowed Kenny.   Indeed.


While Dudley enjoyed some relative anonymity, Kenny decided to play “painter” with Cooper, proving that Cooper, too, is game for just about anything his big brother suggests.




You Aim Too, Please

February 3rd, 2009

I could write another post about the respiratory illness plaguing our house, but I am so bored with it all.   Truly.   Done.

When I was in middle school, my best friends were a set of twins who were the daughters of our church pastor.   Their family was boisterous, big and loving, and the jokes would fly whenever you were invited over.   I adored going to their house – the parsonage next door to the church – every chance I could.    They had this funny little plaque in the powder room above the toilet that read, “Here, we aim to please.   You aim too, please.”   I remember thinking that it was mildly funny and an interesting play on words.   But as a girl with no brothers, it really didn’t mean anything to me.

I remembered that little jingle this afternoon when I was cleaning the bathroom.   I clean the toilets a lot.   Kenny is fantastically potty-trained, and a pretty good aim most of the time, but his mind does wander sometimes when he lets it rip.   There was pee on nearly every surface of the toilet, on the floor behind the toilet, in the trashcan next to the toilet, and on the wall beside the toilet.   And I cleaned this bathroom four days ago.   To be fair, I don’t hold the little guy entirely responsible,as Casey has been known to send intense emails on his blackberry from the confines of the water closet.   Let’s leave it at that.

Speaking of peeing, with the past week of middle-of-the-night nebulizers and medications, Cooper has gotten used to the 3 am feeding again.   And with it has come a rash of 4 am wake-ups because he has completely soaked through his onesie, pjs and blanket sleeper and is lying in a puddle   of freezing cold wee wee.   Oui, oui.   I went out and bought him some overnight pampers today, and fed him as much as he would take in this evening, so my fingers are crossed both for a full night’s rest and a dry baby in the morning.   Ah, could we all just sleep until sunrise??

And speaking of sunrise, we had a series of very grey days this past week and yesterday the sun rose in it’s glory to reveal a really, really dirty house.   How on earth can my house get so dirty, when all I feel like I do is clean?   And when, for goodnesss sakes, am I supposed to clean with a baby and a pre-schooler who no longer naps and begs me to play with him every second the baby is napping?

Speaking of “goodness sakes,” I must learn to curb  my tongue, and quickly.   I don’t swear as a rule, but I do say “Oh gosh!” and “Darnit!” all the time.   And now so  does Kenny.   I apparently also say “dammit” every now and again, because today Kenny dropped his  water cup and shouted, “Oh dammit, look at  this mess!”   I handed him a paper towel and he responded with, “Darnit-barnit, Mama.”   We talked for awhile about how Mommy shouldn’t say those things any more, and neither should a little boy, and we settled on saying, “Pickles!” and “Muskrat!” instead.   No offense to any muskrat fans out there.

Speaking of Kenny’s word-play fascination, tonight at dinner he asked me, “Mama?   Remember that guy who’s our new president?   Barak Obama?   Is his name kind of like ‘Bar-occoli?'”  

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