the shoe must go on

Here's the thing. Holland has an adorable fetish with shoes and that pretty much sums it up. There's no funny story behind the scenes, or freak accident--she just likes shoes. Of all kinds. It doesn't matter if they are men's, woman's or her brothers. She'll try on whatever comes her way.

I think it's cute. And I think she's cute. What more is there to say?

This is Holland liking the fact that I'm taking so many pictures.

"Maybe if I play dead she'll go away."

ride on

It seems almost cruel. Especially to a sweet little boy.

Last week was our week-long season of Spring where we live. We celebrated by planting flowers, pulling out the kiddie pool and buying the long-anticipated new bike for our oldest son. Which meant that the older, smaller bike immediately was inherited by the younger, smaller brother. He couldn't have been more delighted. As soon as we strapped on those training wheels he was off! Well, after several pushes from his mother. We watched as he circled slowly around the cul-de-sac past our house. Weee! We heard him say. The rest of the day was spent on that bike, circling slowly, around and around.

Yesterday. The little guy wakes up excited to ride his new bike. Well, it's Sunday, and we get to do other activities on Sunday, so we explain that he needs to wait until Monday. He nods, trying hard to be patient.

Today. Today's the day! The first words out of his mouth were not his usual launch about the urgency of eating right away, but are declarations to ride his bike! I convince him to have his breakfast first. He agrees. After his oatmeal, he manages to ride around the circle a couple of times, then comes in, defeated. It's cold, he says.

And so it is. And so it will remain (with chance of showers) for the rest of the week. I'm trying to decide if printing out a picture of a bike for him to color would be therapeutic or torture.

privacy, please

Okay, I'm going private. Who wants in?

here's something

So, here's a thought:

Actually, that's the problem. I haven't had many lately. I blame it on the weather. I mean, it can't even make up its mind to decide if it's spring or winter. Unfortunately, right now it's leaning more towards winter. I guess I shouldn't be too hard on the weather, though. It must be hard being the weather. So much pressure--literally! Hahaha. Okay, that was bad--but great. Come'on, more great than bad.

Onto other non-news, here's an idea that you might like. For Family Home Evening the other week we decided it would be fun to draw names in our family for "secret service". Basically we do things for the person who's name we drew throughout the week in secrecy.

This week, Brooklyn drew Roman's name and he could not, for the life of him, figure out who wrote him the I love you note that was shoved under his bedroom door. All week long he studied the note, trying to figure out who the author was. He finally narrowed it down by reasoning that because the y in you looked like a number four, then the writer had to be the age of four. You can imagine his shock and surprise when he learned on Sunday that it was actually his sister of seven.

Overall, it's been a success. But just when I think my children are learning the value and purpose of service, Roman draws his secret name and immediately starts groaning, No! Not him!!

Poor Greggory.

weston v. toilet

I was gone one evening. That alone calls for a minor catastrophe at the Davis household. Not that Weston isn't capable of holding down the fort--he is very qualified--he just seems to attract catastrophes sometimes.

Weston told me that he had sent the boys to brush their teeth. After hearing certain non-brushing noises such as hollering and crying, he went in to investigate. Roman accused Greggory of flushing his toothbrush down the toilet and Greggory readily agreed. He never explained his purpose for flushing it down the toilet. My own theory is that he just grew tired of looking at it day after day and figured it was time for a change. I mean, what really possesses little boys to do the things they do? So, grumbling, I'm sure, Weston went and grabbed his homemade Something's-Stuck-In-The-Toilet-Snatcher-Grabber made from a bent wire clothes hanger and fished in after it.

I had to ask, however. Did Roman get a new toothbrush? (You never know with husbands). He said, yes, he figured that having his toothbrush flushed beyond sight was grounds for a new one.

Well, that was good.

greggory, part mr. hyde

Lately, whenever agitated or provoked or actually for no reason at all, Greggory has been retorting with a "Well, you're an idiant!" Meaning to say idiot, of course.

I keep telling him that we do not call people idiants. Well, it's not nice, for one. I also keep debating with myself on whether to enlighten him on his mispronunciation. I mean, what if when he's 17 and in a fit of anger calls someone an idiant to their face? Not very intimidating. Not that I want Greggory to be a bully, but he really should correctly pronounce any threats.

It reminds me of a story that my dad told me about a student of his when he taught high school. If I recall it correctly, my dad asked him a question in class, and when the student didn't know the answer he retorted, "What am I? D-U-M?"

Perhaps.

I don't know if I will correct Greggory or not. But in the meantime, the word "idiant" will be put on our Words That We Do Not Say Because They Are Naughty List.

picnic in the hall

This morning after I sent Brooklyn and Roman off to school, I was embarking on the task of cleaning up breakfast when little Greggory asked me if I wanted to play with him.

"Sure," I said. That sounded more fun than doing dishes. "What are we going to play?"

"Restaurant," he said, and continued, "I'm the Ice Cream Man and you sit here and then I'll give you ice cream and a toy."

I sat licking my fake ice cream--which happened to be a stack of rubber tires on a stick--and asked him if he wanted any food.

"No," he said knowingly, "Ice Cream Men don't eat." I nodded, agreeing with him. Soon Holland wandered over. I told her to sit down, too. Greggory, the Ice Cream Man, handed her a plate with a plastic turkey on it. She watched how I nibbled on my ice cream and then pretended to nibble on her food, too. Except her food got a lot wetter than mine.

We sat for a few minutes in the hall. I was thinking, this is so fun. And Greggory and Holland and the kids get to do this every day. What have I been doing all these years?

"Mom?" Greggory asked.

"Yes?"

"Guess what. I love you." He stated it matter-of-factly.

"Guess what, Greggory?" I asked him.

"Ladybugs don't bite?" He answered.

"Yes. And I love you, too."

"Yep."