Cat or Dog?

Recently we have been trying to teach our children to make decisions by allowing them to choose between two options. For example: "Roman, do you want to go to timeout or do you want go to bed?"

This morning Brooklyn approached me with two options. Of course she caught me at my most vulnerable position--I was flossing, both of my hands were bound. Recognizing that she would have nothing but my full attention, she stated:

"Dad, you can get me either a cat or a dog. Which one do you think would be better? I would be happy with either one. However," she stated as she lifted up her hands to show me her hypothetical scale of logic, "on the one hand you have a dog, who would eat all the vegetables in our garden." Then, raising her other hand much higher than the first and proclaiming with a happier voice while nodding her head in affirmation, "Or we can get a cat, which will eat all of the mice. So Dad, which is it going to be? . . . A cat that will eat mice or a dog that will eat our food?"

I tried to avoid the subject by brushing my teeth and rinsing, but she kept asking with her hypothetical scales: "Cat or Dog? Cat or Dog? CAT OR DOG?" I still haven't answered her question, but between you, me and everyone else except for Brooklyn, I will be getting her a cat. After all, when you only are only given two options to choose from, you must pick one, right?

(Brigette said I had to make full disclosure that Weston wrote this, as she is embarrassed by my lack of blogging abilities)

Bruised, But Not Beaten

The other day Weston was out tinkering around outside probably trying to decide how many possible ways he could clear the driveway from all of the snow when he suddenly came in with a pained expression on his face. Now, when I say pained, I mean his face was contorted to portray as much agony as humanly possible. Not only that, he was limping to one side and holding his back.

I looked at him, and asked him if something was the matter.

He told me that he had fallen down.

I stared at him trying to muster up as much sympathy as possible and told him I was sorry. Then I went back to reading my book.

I know as I write this that I sound extremely callused, and that may be true. But, that is probably true for two reasons: One, growing up (I know, it's the childhood syndrome) I was taught that if something bad happened, you just tough it up and move on. The second reason is that Weston has been known to milk any injury to the extreme to extract any amount of sympathy for him. So, I try. I really do. But, sometimes, I'm just not in the mood.

Well, anyway, the next day we were in our bedroom and he was changing his shirt. As he lifted his shirt up to remove it, there branding his back very boldly was one of the ugliest bruises I had ever seen. I gasped loudly and cried, "what happened?!"

He looked at me dumbly and then the realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I stammered, trying desperately to still feel justified.

The dumb stare continued.

Feeling like the worst wife in the world, I stood up and gave him a hug. However, I did note the exaggerated wince that he made even though I only touched his shoulders.

I don't think we'll ever learn.

Teamwork

Yesterday I was busy in the living room when I heard a soft thump coming from the boy's room followed by an enthusiastic, "you're welcome!" A minute later, Greggory came walking out to meet me with a victorious grin on his face. Apparently, Roman had helped the little guy "escape" from naptime by tipping his playpen over--with Greggory still in it, of course.



Here's another example of Team Greggoman at work. Roman is kind enough to share his yogurt with Greggy over my brand new carpet.

I love my boys.