Our Travels with Charlie Come to a Close

The first time I saw Charlie, I was standing on the steps of the Matheson Courthouse at 600 South in Salt Lake City. She was hanging her chocolate head out of the backseat of our Subaru. Brigham had picked her up from a pound in Spanish Fork earlier that day, promising me on the phone that he had found, after 6 weeks of dog-shopping, The Dog for us. He was right.

Charlie was a bit wilder after arriving home than she felt free to reveal during her walk at the pound with Brigham. The endearing, and trying, thing about Charlie was simply that she never wanted to be alone. She loved people so much. All she wanted in life was to chase balls and be with people.

During the first week--it may have even been the first full day of dog ownership--I returned home from work to find my house in such a state that I thought someone had broken in and committed acts of violence. This was just from the outside, too. The wood blinds were broken and I could see a tilted lampshade. Of course, it was just poor Charlie, nervous to be on her own with all the blinds drawn (so as not to loose heat out the 100 year old windows).



My life in Salt Lake revolved around Charlie in a very real way. We lived three blocks from the dog park. That is where I could be found every evening. In the six weeks btwn ending my clerkship and Andrew's birth, Charlie was my constant companion. We would start our day at Liberty Park, throwing the ball up that big hill by the water. August until October 17th. Even at the time, when I thought I had another decade left with that sweet dog, I thought it was such a beautiful picture: Charlie's shiny chocolatey self against the vibrant grass. I wish I had taken a photo.

After Andrew was born, Charlie took a backseat. It was hard, and she was jealous. But we never had to worry about her posing a threat to our kids. Andrew loved her and she allowed him to crawl all over her, pull her fur and tail and ears with total abandon. The first words that I knew my sons understood were "Charlie" and "doggie." The first thing both boys did in their babyhood was play with the dog from the side of our bed. All I had to do was say "doggie!" or "Charlie!" and my babies would stop fussing and start looking down at the ground, trying to find their beloved little animal.



Andrew's love for Charlie waned a bit when he got older and would occassionally get knocked down by our exuberant dog. No matter how old she got, she really still acted like a puppy. I think it led us to believe she was indescructable, both to injury and to time.



She was tough. Once, I witnessed another dog lunge at her and seem to bite her. She gave out a very distressed yelp, but then just trotted on back to our house. Brigham discovered, hours later, that she actually had an enormous hole in her side that required many stiches (and about $600) to close. He had been throwing the ball to her in the park and noticed that she would walk back to him. That was how she showed injury.



When we first moved back to Va, my dad and I would bring Charlie with us on every outing we took with Andrew. I think we went to the McLean library just about every day that fall. Charlie would chase the ball while Andrew tottered around on the playground equipment.



Everything we did, Charlie sort of fit herself into. My favorite thing to do is simply go on walks. My parents live on a dead-end street with a bike-trail, so walks with the boys and Charlie were just what we did, multiple times a day. When I would sit at the computer, Charlie lay underneath at my feet. The chairs around our dining room table even today are disturbed by the last time she scrambled out from her favorite resting place when she heard the word "walk." I am still stepping widely to get in and out of bed. That is where she slept, and it is where my senses still think she is. Where they know she in all rights should still be.





Last Friday, I took her outside with Andrew and I so I could brush her and just let her hang out with us while Will slept. The kids next door were thrilled and had a great time playing catch with her. She kept at it for at least an hour before refusing to go on with it. This didn't seem too unusual; it was hot and even Charlie can get worn out eventually.

An hour later, inside, I discovered she had gotten sick in our basement while she lay next to the boys. The only alarm it raised was for the carpet. We didn't really start to think something was truly wrong and in need of medical attention until the next day. By then it was just too late. We still don't know if she ate poison or if she picked up a bacteria called Leptospirosa. I am trying to keep myself from wondering when it was, how it was, that she came into contact with something that was stronger than she was.

Charlie really was the best dog I have ever known. She loved us, was devoted to us. You couldn't even scold her for her minor infractions because it just hurt her feelings beyond the severity of the offense.

It has taken me a month to get back to my blog because it hurt my heart too much to finish this post about Charlie, and yet I didn't feel that I could write anything more until I wrote about her.

I still think about Charlie every day and miss her. I try to battle the feeling that her little life was wasted on us. She was such a happy and devoted dog. She infused some of that enthusiasm in our own lives, getting us out the door multiple times a day to go on walks.

The few times I have had the heart to make that familiar walk down Old Falls and the bike trail since her passing, I have realized how much she added to those little jaunts. Somehow, it just isn't as satisfying when there isn't that big happy brown dog running up ahead to get her ball and then lying in the grass, waiting for us to catch up. I like to think that, though it may be a long wait, that is exactly what she is doing now.

Chucky Cheese: Where a Kid Can Be a Kid With Hoof and Mouth Disease

I took Andrew and Will to Chucky Cheese this afternoon for an early dinner and, apparently, the most fun Andrew has ever had indoors in his life.

From the moment we walked through the door, it was as if he were both struck deaf and injected with speed. He really remind me of one of those contestants on a game show where the object is to pile as much stuff in the shopping cart within 90 seconds. He would just run frantically from one arcade to another, maximizing, I suppose, his exposure to germs in the most time-effective way. It was obvious that he needed to use the bathroom, but he literally would not even hear out my suggestion. Every time I began, "Andrew--" he cut me off with a staccato "nonononono!" I practically had to put him under arrest to haul him off to the bathroom before he made those filthy rides even grosser (maybe the uric acid would have had a sanitizing effect, on second though). It would not have been as gross, at least, as the vomit on the Bob the Builder digger in the toddler section.

We only ended up spending about 5 or 6 tokens. Andrew was perfectly happy to just sit in the rides and spin the wheels of unengaged arcade cars. He tried one arcade NASCAR (I selected Jimmy Johnson for him; he's the best looking) but quickly became terrified of it. I think it was too real for him. I am fairly certain that he feared actual bodily injury. The steering wheel shook and was hard to turn and I think the firey crashes he constantly engaged in (plus the firey collisions with the wall) got him a bit spooked. "NONONONONONONO!" and then "get me out of here!" I admit that I really didn't perform much better when I took over the wheel, but I hope that it was because I was holding Will.

At the end of the evening, I lost track of him. He turned up inside one of the basektball games. He was alight with pure joy. "Mommy! I climbed through a tunnel!" Tunnel = very tiny opening at the toe-end of a boot-shaped hoop game. I couldn't believe that he could fit, really. He just stood inside there and joyfully slam dunked the ball (the hoop was face-level from his position). Fortunately, after a while the ball somehow bounced out of the hoop and would smack him in the face. I say fortunately bc it meant that I had some hope of removing him. Also because he threw a really funny tantrum, so long as seeing a kid slap himself while dancing and screaming, "It hit my own face!" (referring to the ball, as opposed to his hand, which had also hit his own face).

But it did bring back memories of my own childhood, back when I thought Chucky Cheese was a classy and wonderful place. (As an adult I admit I feel a little bit disappointed that I live in a town so convenient to a C.C.) The last time I had darkened the door of a Chucky Cheese was back in the mid 80s. My parents relented and took me and my sisters there for my 8th birthday. We were all so thrilled, especially Dad. (Ok, my sisters and I were thrilled; my parents were probably present in body only). Chucky Cheese used to do it a bit differently back then. First, I think that it was geared towards birthdays (or maybe this says a lot about Child Me). Second, much more was made of Chucky's rock n' roll status. They had a stage where enormous rocker mice machines would perform, and eventually a live enormous Chucky would emerge and entertain the crowd. The highlight was when they would invite up the Birthday Kid(s) for some special attention.

On the occassion of my family birthday dinner, Chucky came out on the stage for some songs and some birthday celebration. He called up the birthday kid. I was so excited and ran up on the stage. Another little girl did the same, but I didn't mind sharing the spotlight. I do remember that Chucky seemed a bit dismissive of me, but nothing to get too sensitive about. Strangely, they only presented the other girl with a party-bag, cake and balloons, but I was perfectly happy to forgo those (I went to Catholic school, after all, and was very pious). I stood and smiled while the band sang Happy Birthday to the two of us, naming only the other girl (a minor oversight). I think it was not until years later that I realized that my parents had made no formal notification to the establishment that I was a birthday kid, too, and the whole Mouse Parade must have been thrown for a loop by this happy clueless kid that showed up on that stage. I wonder if my parents noticed how funny the situation was. Probably not. Its the Smith way.

We picked Brig up from the metro on our way home and then I promptly abandoned him with the boys while I went to a Church activity. I returned home early to discover that neither child had been bathed. After all that. And I had even given Will a lollipop for the ride home. I bathed Will quickly, but it was too late for Andrew, already in bed. Hopefully none of the bacteria will take hold during the night. Too bad C.C. hasn't created a sanitizing mist at the entrance and exit. The only thing that could possibly make that heavenly place even better.

Zen Moment

Sheep love her, too.

How Not to Conduct a Move

1. Hire Starving Students to facilitate the move. My favorite quote from a friend who heard of the fiasco after the fact: "They need money for books!"



Our move date was a Monday. We had also failed to show up at many of the recent move-in move-out occassions within our ward. One plus one = we felt bad seeking help in our latest move. Starving Students seemed to be a cheap and guilt-free alternative, abuot $400 above the cost of the rental truck. Worth it, in theory.

The Students turned out to be three enormous middle-aged men who, if size is any indication, are not starving at all, nor, if age or demeanor any indication, students (unless you count that they are still learning how to function as professional movers, as they demonstrated very clearly over then next 13 hours). I suppose I was naive to actually expect students to arrive. Students of something besides slowly learning how to move, that is. They were being paid by the hour, so I realize that they could put 1 and 1 and 1 and 1 etc together, too.

They had the requesting tips skill down pat, however, with the steady reminder to Brigham: "We accept tips, you know! We accept tips, man!" Maybe they meant tips on how to pick up furniture and remove it from the home and put it on the truck. They did certainly need some tips on how to accomplish that.



2. If, at 7 pm, your to-be departed home still looks like it did that morning, choose not to call the ward Elders Quorom.

Brigham resisted my advice, to all our later doom. He didn't return to my parents' house, where we had to sleep that night, until 4am, as he had to help the starving students unload in Oakton. I figure that cosmic justice should have dictated that we get some extra help, as I spent many summers during college with my disabled vetran father and teenage sister helping people in his ward move. Maybe I used up my dues with the excessive help the Cannon family provided when we left SLC and again when we moved into our DC apt. Thanks again, you guys!

3. Choose a night when it is supposed to rain.

After loading up the truck in a supremely space-unconscious manner, the starving students raced through the rain on Route 66. Unfortunately, this was the first time they demonstrated any attempt at speed. The students ended up clipping a tree with the top of the truck and crashing with another motorist. Now will they ahve to go to driving school on top of their already burdensome course load?

4. Hang on to every piece of junk you have ever possessed.



The way I look at it, every time you move, you are essentially repurchasing your things bc it can be so expensive to relocate. Most of my stuff is second hand and crappy. Surely I could have parted with it, but I didn't. When will I learn this lesson?!

5. Hopefully, one of your children will become violently ill during the night.



Just as I was getting Willsie to sleep, I heard Andrew crying out from his room at my parents' house. Mom took Will and I went in to Andrew, only to discover his totally covered in vomit. He did not stop crying or throwing up all during the bath I put him in. He eventually fell back to sleep, poor little guy. I was so lucky my mom was there.

We are finally mostly settled, unless you look inside the master bedroom, which you won't. We invited some friends over last night, served them pulled pork and then had them help us move a couch. Internet set up, things mostly put away, we are feeling good. Despite how much I was dreading the move and how much I do miss aspects of life in DC, as soon as I walked in the door of our box-clogged townhouse, I felt a huge sense of relief.

Special and huge thanks to Mom and Dani for spending hours and hours helping out. It would have been so much worse without you!

Scatter My Ashes at TRC!

Perhaps it is just because I am currently raising my kids in the same area in which I grew up, but I can't seem to simply live in the moment as the boys and I go about our daily activities. It is one eye on the past of my own childhood and the other eye on my funeral. It is a bit ridiculous.

We spent most of our day today at Tuckahoe, a place that, if sentimentality were the sole guide for selecting a wedding reception site, would have been the location of my wedding reception. We splashed around in the baby pool and then spent some time up on the hill, where Andrew climbed on the jungle gym and I fought back tears at the memory of last summer on that same gym when A was still a baby, and then the memories of 25 years ago on the little putt-putt course just behind us.

Andrew incorporated these imaginary phone calls to his dad in his little routine on the jungle gym. It was really sweet. He and his daddy have gotten so close recently. Will still can't stand the man, but at least I know that should probably change with time.

We then went to Carey's house where Andrew disappeared into the basement and backyard with the kids. He loves his little friends and being at their home. Carey and I left Andrew with Paul and the girls and went to check out some neighborhoods nearby. Andrew could not have been less interested in my leaving.

Just before we were to leave, Andrew and Piper had an accident on the slide (Andrew slid right down and smacked his nose on Piper's head.) I thought it had to be broken, there was so much blood. But my recipe for calming injured children did the trick (tv plus a treat) and I was able to haul him out of there pretty quickly.

He was so funny about the issue of blood. Here are some of the things he had to say about it:

At Carey's house as we left: "Don't look at myself and my blood!"

Arriving at my parents' house, where we were to meet Brig: "I don't want to get out! I don't want Daddy to see my blood!"

On the driveway to the house: "Don't talk about it. I don't have shoes. It's not fair."

He acted ashamed every time anyone mentioned the accident or his injury. So we cut it out. After a bath that turned the water a rust color, he was good as before and in a happy and energized mood. I asked him to tell me about what he and the girls had done while Carey and I had been out. This is what he said:

"We frew trash on the floor and ylaughed and ylaughed and ylaughed." They also played tickle games, jumped on the trampoline and played cars. But I loved best the idea of them being so silly and leaving him with an image of himself and his little friends just ylaughing and ylaughing and ylaughing.

I hope that's how he can look back and remember most of his little childhood. Just without the trash-throwing provocation.

Tool Use in Baby Primates

When I was a kid, my parents wasted a lot of money on piano lessons for me and my equally talentless sisters. We went through many teachers, which is why I feel safe in mentioning the story to follow on my blog. (Well, that and also that my readership consists of about 15 family members).

One of my piano teachers had several children, all of whom looked exactly like gorillas. It was erie. And you know how babies and toddlers handle toys and objects--just like little primates, so the kids really did reinforce the idea that they were apes. It was a little bit their own fault. I always laughed to myself while my teacher and I both endured my 30 minute lesson that I was in Gorillas in the Mist. At one of our recitals/public shaming for not practicing, my sisters and mom and I were watching one of the baby gorillas playing with a toy in such a way as to provoke my mom to comment: "Look, girls, tool use in lower primates!"

I was reminded of this personal history the other day when my own little primate demonstrated some tool use of his own variety. My mom keeps a heavy supply of candy in her house. It is part of the food storage, I think. Andrew kept getting into it, so we had to put it up on the highest shelves. The other day she walked in on Andrew, who was stowed away in the pantry with a mouth full of chocolate. He also had candies in both hands. At his feet was a broom with a very long handle.

"It's ok Nana! I just have one. Two. Two because I am two!"

He has used the broom on another two occassions to knock the candy down to the floor. Yes, we are very proud.

New Life in Oakton

I have lots to report on our move, but wanted to quickly record Andrew's experience at his "new nursery" class today. The following conversation took place in the car on teh way home:

Mom and Dad: "What did you do at nursery today?"

Andrew: "Um, somebody slapped me in the face."

Us: Was it a boy or a girl who slapped you?

A: A girl

Daddy: "What did you do after she slapped you?"

Andrew: "I laid down on the floor. I wanted my mommy and daddy to come back."

Anyone who has seem and Andrew Tantrum knows about this laying on the floor routine. At least he didn't "Clear the Table," his more anger-ridden tactic.

First Tooth

I had been worrying lately that Will, at 8 months, has yet to cut a tooth. I fed my fears with some helpful internet searches that informed me that most babies cut their first teeth btwn 5 and 7 months, that some variation is normal, but that poor nutrition can delay teething. I was sure little Will would be like the toothless 14 month old girl whose mother posed questions to an on-line dr. I have enough reasons to feel like Will is starving without delayed dental development.

Two days ago, Andrew claimed that he saw a tooth in Will's mouth. My parents and I laughed about the idea that Andrew would be the first to notice Will's tooth. But it turned out that he was. (Hey, another evidence of his sooth-saying) The next day (yesterday), Will bit my mom with his new tooth. He has bitten me several times since. It is a powerful little white ruffle barely poking through his tender little gums.

I will mark it in my baby book: Will's first tooth was his lower right front, July 1, 2008.

The Photos Lost Now Are Found

My camera-phone, a very generous gift from my parents, experienced a fatal technical difficulty a few weeks ago. The keypad suddenly stopped functioning. Fortunately, it was still under warranty, but the crushing threat to me was that 10 months of photos and video clips of the boys were locked inside. The phone worked, but I could not access anything in it.

My mom took the phone to the repair store, but they claimed that the photos were beyond reach, took the phone and gave her a replacement. I was devastated when I heard the news. All those memories . . . And I was positive there had to be a way. But now my phone was no longer in my possession. I called the store that had the phone, but they claimed to have already shipped it out and that it would be impossible to ever find it again.

I was heartbroken, but had a hard time believing the phone would be shipped out that very day. It didn't make business sense to ship out every single evening. Persistance paid off and a week later, after several trips to retrieve the phone and being told it was no longer mine and they would not trade the new phone for the old and many calls to upper management, they finally admitted that they had not shipped the phone and I could take it back. Great customer service.

Once I had the phone back in my possession, Brigham solved all my problems by purchasing a download program that pulled everything off. Here is a sampling of photos that would have been lost forever.




Will's first time in a swing, March 14 208


On a walk a few days before Will was born. A very special memory for me.

A Summer Day

Last week, we decided to beat the heat at our favorite place in the entire city of Falls Church: the other Cannon residence.



Andrew loves Taylor, Natalee and Piper. He still has not tired of Taylor's one-liner joke: "A chicken wears pink underwear!" Andrew even says it in a weird voice; I am fairly certain he is trying to imitate Taylor's delivery.



The day was hot and I was not interested in warding off requests to jump on the trampoline (when did Andrew drop the old familiar "jump high!" from his trampoline lingo? Oh how he changes every month!). We decided it was a perfect day for the sprinkler. We were right.

There were only a few of those AFV accidents (kids colliding as the speed from opposite directions toward the same spot while parents are laughing too hard to intervene), but the kids were having such a good time, there were no tears.

After a while, Andrew decided to liven things up by spraying the others, primarily Taylor's 7 year old friend. Who submitted to it. When he decided he had had enough, he asked Andrew to stop. Andrew's response:


"Come closer a lil bit!" That is what he was saying right here.



After all the other kids tired of the sprinkler, and there had to be some form of rescue for the 7 year old powerless against the two year old, I stepped in and sprayed Andrew.

We're So Glad When Daddy Comes Home

I just wanted to record that the other day, when loudly opening a can of soda in my kitchen, Andrew heard the tell-tale crack of the can and came streaking happily from his room crying, "Daddy's here! Daddy's here!"

Poor Brig really does drink a constant stream of coke. I used to get mildly annoyed at how much we spent on Diet Lime Coke until I realized that it is what pays all our bills.

My Day with Peter Breinholt

With my new facebook account, I feel as though I have been transported back in time. I recently dreamed (nightmared) I was in high school again (and then I realized with equal horror that all that was 15 years ago), and my idle thoughts have strayed back to the halls of my college dorm in 1996, the soundtrack of which was provided by Peter Breinholt. So it was entirely appropriate that the very Peter Breinholt himself got out of my dreams and into my chapel yesterday.

The Musician was in town to baptize his little nephew. Yes, we live in a ward of very high-profile Mormons. In my estimation, the Breinholts totally beat out Harry Reid, also a ward member, and they don't even complicate our services with all those secret service agents. (Incidentally, Andrew and Will are related by blood to Peter Breinholt. Ahh, polygamy. It all goes back to George Q.)

It was actually the sweetest little baptism I have ever attended. The little boy was so happy and prepared, the talks were all excellent, and Peter Breinholt pulled out his guitar and sang a primary song. Solo. It was awesome. Honestly, part of me was expecting to hear Songs About the Great Divide. But that children's song sounded even better.

One of the lines in one of the songs we sang that day included something similar to "I want to be clean like the earth after rain." There was something so sweet and pure in that song that really struck a chord with me. Sometimes testimonies and faith can get so complicated and bogged down in the meandering paths of murky doctrines. Yesterday I was reminded that it can be, and should be, as simple as wanting to be good and to follow Jesus, as best we know, as best we can.

And if possible, to have Peter Breinholt performing the musical number whenever reasonably appropriate.

Food Fit For Brig

The other Sunday as we left Church, I stopped to express appreciation to one of the Sunday School teachers for a nice lesson. After a few minutes of pleasantries, she excused herself so she would not be too late for choir practice. "I just had to run out to my car to get this treat for the rest of the choir," she said, gesturing to the package of Fig Newtons in her hand. "I don't know how we would get through practice without them!"

As soon as she was on the other side of the door, Brigham turned to me and declared earnestly, "Fig Newtons are pig food."



"Really. My grandpa had pigs and I am pretty sure that is what we fed them."

This is not the first time that Brigham has described food he does not like as being fit for pigs. There is the story of his mother walking out of the house after Brigham characterized as "slop" the food she had prepared for the family meal. (His mom doesn't remember; Brig still feels very guilty.)

It is mildly surprising to me when he disparages any kind of food item, since he claims, and I can bear witness, that Brigham's main objective in eating is simply "to get full." (Once when I was twisting in indecision over whether to make the baked ravioli or some other thing for the missionaries, Brigham advised me that it didn't matter because they just wanted to get full.) So in this way he is sort of like a pig--with higher standards.

Later that night, under instruction from me to make me laugh, he divulged that he used to be jealous of the pigs. Apparently, they also were fed past due hostess cupcakes. "They couldn't have been that bad."

As a little kid, I had also been envious of my grandmother's horses and livestock, since they were allowed to eat certain cereals that were off-limits to me. I used to steal their food as we headed out to feed them their Fruit Loops and other stale cereals that had probably been stored in some shed in an open container.

Is it silly to say that this made me feel closer to my husband? As it goes, I also happen to hate Fig Newtons. That plus the childhood eagerness to eat food designated for barnyard animals . . . well, at least we have that going for us.

Will at 6 Months

One thing I have learned about babies is that it is almost impossible to accurately record the real "firsts." Everything is a process; I have a hard time determining even when they truly have cut their first teeth. I have settled on relaxing precision in favor of approximation. So, at 7 months old, I can look back and describe what I have witnessed during Will's 6 month of life. The photos were taken between April and the end of May.



During month 6, Will began sitting up on his own. He is still not to be entirely trusted with this feat and will often face-plant if I don't keep a close eye out. But still, the child can sit. Mastering this skill is one of the most welcome milestones for me.

Will has been very busy getting to the places he needs to go. He does not crawl on all fours yet. His movement is much more akin to a tiny baby seal on land. He is very quick at it. It is an image I will never forget. One morning I put him on the living room rug with some toys and then dashed off to get something else taken care of. I turned to see how Will was doing and saw that baby seal drag-pushing himself around the corner and into Andrew's room to go get toys. That little picture described much about little Will. He is independent about getting things for himself; he knows that Andrew is the master slave driver; he must either wait his turn to boss me or just help himself. He never bosses. One of the most endearing and fascinating things to me is discovering where a baby would like to go if only he could get there. I love that Will wants toys and he knows where to get them.




His favorite toys are balls. And balloons. Today he played with hard boiled eggs. Anything round and Willsie is happy.




Will is carrying on the tradition begun by his brother of insisting upon stumbling around on two feet while I clutching my fingers. I hate this stage. Other mothers dread the day their baby will be on the hoof, but I truly cannot wait. It is the day of my salvation from the hours upon hours of breaking my back acting as a human walking stick. Andrew used to shriek when he could feel me trying to pry my fingers out of his tight grasp. Will complains, too, but is a lot nicer about it. Thanks, honey.

Will also likes to push the limits on how long he can keep awake. What happened to my perfect sleeper from a few months ago? It is a curse I brought upon us. I only ask that the boys pay us back for all these hours of lost sleep by being investment bankers later.



Willsie still smiles all the time, laughs at Andrew's every move, particularly the ones that make physical contact with him, and babbles. He loves to take baths with Andrew, tackle Andrew, roll on Andrew and watch Andrew. He eats a lot better than Andrew did. His favorite food seems to be peaches with rice cereal. He seems to have relaxed his policy of freaking out when I sing, but has now is experiencing stranger anxiety. He will not let others hold him. His hierarchy of favorite people is very obvious. After me and Brig (a distant 2nd), he likes my mom. He will let Papa hold him if absolutely necessary.

Will is over half-way to a year. Another six months and he will be well on his way to being more of a toddler than a baby. It just goes.

Brotherly Love

Will's arrival was not the easiest development in the life of Andrew Cannon. We endured months of bouts of jealousy, instances of slapping, reversion to baby-like behavior (only really annoying) and clingyness with me. By Christmas, Andrew was pretty used to Will. I wouldn't say that he ignored the baby, because he did talk about him a lot and show concern for him ("Our baby is crying! Help him!"), and sometimes even affection ("He's a funny baby. I love you so much baby Will.") But I think we have turned a corner even still: Andrew now genuinely wants baby Will around.

I realized recently that I have simply expected my two boys to be best friends. If they are not close as they grow up, I know it will be one of the biggest disappointments of my life. I realize that isn't quite fair, but that is how I feel now. Hopefully the boys will sense my desires and, at minimum, feel guilted into closeness.



It should be easy and natural, though. They have so much in common. Will is like a tiny, skinny version of his big brother. I am saving a post on Will's Six Month Milestones to go into more detail, but he really is a mini Andrew (but a little bit of an easier nature insofar as sleeping and eating are concerned). I am hoping that he displays Andrew's AFV sense of humor. Next time I trip in Will's presence, I will have to be sure to gauge his reaction. At around Will's age, Andrew would go from crying to laughing at any of my misfortunes. Almost choking to death in the car (me) really lightened his mood one day and turned the shrieking from being trapped in a car seat into peals of joyful laughter. He couldn't even see me.



Anyway, but I want to relate the secret to getting my older son to love and want to be around my baby son. Andrew loves attention. Most of our life together has consisted of me narrating his activities as he engages in them. Sometimes a little bit tedious for me, but absolutely essential in his world. In the last 6 months, his toys have begun to participate in the narration, or at least talk to him. (Some of my body parts are likewise treated as separate talking entities, and my feet, for example, often have to carry on conversations with his feet, or admire his basketball games.) I realized that the way to Andrew's heart was through his ego. So I let Baby Will in on the dialouge, and Andrew cannot get enough.

Baby Will spends his whole day describing what Andrew is doing and exclaiming over how "awesome" and "amazing" his brother and the activity his brother is engaged in are. Baby Will speaks in a really high-pitched voice. Andrew refers to it as "A tiny, tiny baby voice," and if I leave Baby Will silent too long, Andrew will guide me: "Have Baby Will talk in his tiny, tiny voice and say . . . " and Andrew supplies the necessary praise in a really high pitched annoying voice which I sometimes can't understand. But I know basically what he wants, so I talk about how much Will loves him and how awesome Andrew is.

It has worked wonderfully. Andrew now hugs Baby Will, tries really hard to make Baby Will laugh, kisses him and tickles him. He tells him they will be best friends when he gets bigger, and promises to teach him how to play basketball and racing, again, when he is bigger. Today he promised to show him how to be so awesome . . . when he is bigger.



Inducting Baby Will into Andrew's vast fan club of puppets, cars and stuffed animals, all of whom speak through my voice, has totally changed their relationship. Because Will worships and adores Andrew, Andrew now sends those feelings right back. And the best part is that, while I am the one saying the words, it is obvious that Baby Will's feelings for Andrew are just as I describe. Nothing makes him smile and laugh and start flapping around more than the sight of his big brother (or maybe a balloon).

Hopefully this means that there will be no repeat of the incident of a few days ago. I left the room to get a glass of water and heard the normal sounds of playing. Then I heard Andrew's voice calling out urgently, "I'm sorry, Baby! I'm sorry! You're ok, baby Will! You are!" I rushed back into the room to find that everything was basically as I had left it. Curious, I asked Andrew why he was apologizing. "Because I hit Baby William," Andrew replied, highlighting one of Will's best qualities: he is really not a complainer.

As the years go by and the boys approximate each other in size, or at least in ability to fight back and defend themselves, and as they grow into genuine playmates, I will have to remember how it all began and let Will get a few free punches in.

Bribery v. Threats

Today you both woke up around 5am. The heat is shut off in our building, so our apartment is pretty cold. Andrew, your room is a little peninsula into the courtyard, so your room is probably 10 degrees colder than ours. So you wake up. You would probably wake up anyway, but at least now you have an excuse.

While we are on the subject, I thought I would let you know about your dad's tactic v. my tactic to getting you to sleep through the night.

When your dad was out of town last week, I knew that I had to rule the Nights. Well, Baby Will is really the King, but I had to at least have dominion over you.

Around midnight, you went into this weird screaming fit you had been experimenting with the preceeding few days. Locking you into your room doesn't solve the problem: you bang on the door as you scream at the top of your lungs, awakening Baby Will (and, oh yeah, probably everyone else above and below us). It is not even close to being as charming as I have described. I am a little surprised no on has complained or called the police. Visions flitted into my mind of how I could get you to sh** up (you were begging me to use those words against you, just begging me!).

I envisioned a humane strap that would secure you to the bed. This is my way of gently saying that I wanted to tie you down.

One inviolable rule of Parenting is that if Mommy Dearest did it, you really can't do it yourself. So, my mind moved on to other ways to achieve my ends.



I knew it had to be something that would contain you and keep me and Will from being disturbed by you, and something I could actually carry out. This is what I thought of next, and I think it was brilliant:

"If you keep screaming like this, tomorrow I am going to the store. I will by a baby crib and I will put it far away across the apartment in the computer room. I will put you in that crib and you will not be able to get out and I will not be able to hear you scream. You will sleep there from tomorrow on if you do not stop screaming right now."

I thought that I would really do it. In the light of day, it might not have been a good idea, since you would probably break your neck climbing out of the crib and I would be too paranoid to us a crib tent. You would have been on a mattress in the computer room.

Well, my will was not tested, since luckily the threat was enough. I did not hear another sound out of you for the next few nights. When your dad returned, so did your midnight banshee routine. This was Daddy's approach:

I found a crudely drawn chart. On one side was a stick-figure bed, on the other a series of boxes. If you slept through the night for seven nights, Daddy would buy you a Doc Hudson car.

The Bribe Approach was also successful. You were so excited to get underway with acquiring Doc that you jumped right into bed. You have failed to sleep through the night on occassion since then, but no more screaming.

Happily, right now you are drugged. You are sick so we had to do it. Hopefully you will be better tomorrow. I would sure hate it if you slept from 9am to 1pm and then lay listlessly on the couch for the rest of the evening again.

Actually, when the Tylenol was working its evil magic, you were in a great mood and back to your bubbly self. We took two baths, you played basketball with Daddy, you went to McDonalds with Papa (while I took Will to the dr) and even thanked Papa for playing with you. You swam the goldfish crackers into your mouth while you watched your shows under the influence of a 101 degree temperature. You are the cutest little thing. Just please stay asleep at night.

Thoughts on Mothers' Day

I wanted to post my favorite Mothers' Day essay. It was written by author Anna Quindlen. It always makes me cry. Thank you to Lynne of sugarcityjournal for sending it to me a few years ago.


All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow, but in disbelief.

I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like.

Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves.

Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books I once poured over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education — all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations — what they taught me, was that they couldn’t really teach me very much at all.

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay.

No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.

When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent, this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr.Brazelton’s wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants:average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged?

Was I insane? Last year he went to China . Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine.

He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the “Remember-When-Mom-Did” Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language — mine,not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed.

The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, “What did you get wrong?” (She insisted I include that here.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald’s drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs.

There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night.

I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

Even today I’m not sure what worked and what didn’t, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I’d done.

Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That’s what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

A Game of Catch

Andrew and I have been playing catch a lot lately. I can't believe that he has reached that age where he can actually play a game like this with me. He can legitimately throw and catch a ball (a light-weight, larger ball).

I still blame many of his mis-catches on the poor throw. I do this to avert frustration and the collapsing to the floor in self-protest that inevitably follows. I have wondered if I should temper my self-blame and let Andrew deal with making a catching or throwing mistake a little bit more directly.

Today, I had to confront this dilemma again. We had a great rally going when I delivered a genuinely bad pass. I hit him smack in the face with the ball. "Oh, that was a bad throw," I admitted.

"That's ok, Mommy. Papa does a lot of bad throws, too!" he reassured me confidently.

Morning Song

Will, I just, for the very first time in your life, sang you to sleep. I have sung to you before while you were asleep, but those couple of times were more instances of you tolerating or being unaware of the singing. This morning, your fussing and crying actually stopped when I began. I couldn't believe it.

Interestingly, I was singing "Jesus Loves Me, This I Know." It may sound silly to you, but I sort of offered up a mental prayer that I could comfort you and help you fall asleep. The enzymes have burned up your little bottom and have caused, or are associated with, tummy pains and problems, particularly at night. The last few days you have simply not been quite the sunny, happy baby I have known.

Ever since your diagnosis last Wednesday, I have gone through a range of reactions. At first I felt horrified that you were being diagnosed with CF. Then I tried to focus on the drs' reasurances that it was a mild variant and that, with treatment, you would lead a relatively healthy life. I told myself it would be like diabetes: we would have to manage it, it would be a nuisance sometimes, but it would not be fatal to you, or terribly disruptive to your happy life.

Then I began experiencing some denial. Your newborn screen was negative. Your sweat test, which has about a 1-3% rate of false negatives, was negative. The doctors admitted they were a bit baffled by your genetic test: one CF gene for certain, but they think there must be some T factor . . . They explained this part to me a few times in the hospital, and it made sense for maybe 20 minutes.

Yesterday I felt fear. You were napping without any baby clothes so as to air out that sore little bum. I went in to wake you so that you didn't sleep too long. You were on your tiny side and your ribs were just sticking out. I have never seen that on a baby in real life. And it is my baby. Your treatment doesn't seem to be working. You hate the enzymes bc they taste awful. You are refusing your food now bc you know I hide those enzymes in it. I feel helpless, and I find myself reverting to the position that it must not be CF, it must be something else. I don't know what to do.

Cuddling up with you this morning as I tried to help you take your nap, I was struck by one of the lines in the song that had mysteriously calmed you the moment I began singing:

"little ones to Him belong; they are weak but He is strong."

Little Will, did you know I had tears then? You do belong to Him. You are weak, but He is strong, and He loves you.

Maybe I needed to hear that as much as you.

An Almost Perfect Day

Someone was praying for me today. Maybe even without ceasing.

Both boys went to bed tonight without a fuss at all. Andrew even cleaned up his room without any help from me other than providing verbal encouragement. All three of us ate dinner together (chicken nuggets for A, applesauce for W and a delicious tuna pasta w/ orange peppers and spinach that I threw together for myself.

Sure, we ran out of milk and I had to scrounge for frozen o.j., which I was only able to cram into a small-necked carafe by scooping it with my hand and shoving it down the little neck. But I am fairly certain I washed my hands between the zoo trip and then, and Andrew pronounced it delicious and forced me to "try it!" from his Dora sippy cup. I was thirsty anyway.

Will took two hour naps (I had to awaken him to keep them that length) exactly on schedule. Andrew found renewed interest in his toys after having spent most of last week with Nana and Papa, and played quietly for a bit and politely invited me to play racing, too. The only stressful part of the day was in the morning when Andrew wouldn't comply with something . . . I can't even remember what now. It was a big deal, though, bc he had to keep repeating his time outs since he wept and screamed and kicked and got out of the chair. But he finally got it right and was so compliant for the rest of the day it was as if I were offering chocolate to get him to do it. It was so wonderful.

(Oh, now I remember: he had started screaming when I was on the phone with the realtor about the townhouse we applied too late to rent, and then he began throwing his chocolate milk all over the white couch. Big trouble.)

After Will woke up from his afternoon nap, we went to the zoo. Perfect weather, perfect kids. Andrew and I pretended to be race cars. Andrew would occassionally bump the stroller, my cue to "spin out of control!", and then would rescue Will and me. Even the animals provided a much better show than I have ever seen before. They were all out and active. The sloth bears fed one another, the zebras were nuzzling and scampering together, the elephant and hippo were eating. Andrew tried to scare birds ("boo!") as we raced back up the hill. Even the weather was perfect.

Andrew has gotten great at throwing and catching balls. He loves to play catch, and this evening he had me throwing the football with him. When he would miss a catch, he would blame my throw ("That was a bad throw."). He got that from me blaming myself to prevent the self-loathing and discouragement that would result in him collapsing gently onto his back in self protest.

Will had the most fun in the tub as he has ever had. Andrew put on a real show for him by slamming his matchbox cars onto the side of the tub and making noises in accompanyment. Will thought this was hilarious and laughed a real honest to goodness laugh. I have to tape record it. I think I only have a few recordings of Andrew's baby laugh, and I regret that so much.

I was thinking as I read stories to the boys in Andrew's bed tonight about what our lives were like last year. I got the little treasury golden book for A for Christmas 2006. He was so little then. I think his only consistent and clear words were ice, no, emma and ami (for mommy). I thought that Timmy in the story Busy Timmy was doing such advanced things when he dressed himself, opened the door, walked down the steps all by himself. I even worried that it might discourage Andrew, who couldn't identify. Tonight I thought about how Andrew could do all of those things. He even agreed with the narrator when I read "You can do lots of things, too." "Yes, I can," replied Andrew to the book. And he proved it by lying "on his tummy like a big boy" (to go to sleep), as we used to instruct him last summer. Almost a year ago. Can it really be?

The time has flown. I am nearly in tears as I write this. On these days, these perfect days, I know I will miss it all. Even the days we struggle and I am desperate for my back up rescue hero to walk through the door at 7.

Amazingly, I did not need rescue at any point today. But I miss you a lot anyway, Brig.

Nocturns

We have been having trouble sleeping at night lately. Andrew has been having nightmares. We will hear him cry out, "No, no, stop! Help, Mommy, help me!" We have to listen to that sort of thing for almost an hour. It is really disruptive to our television viewing.



Just kidding. I go in right away, alarmed that my little boy is in such distress. He is usually still asleep, but responds to my words of comfort ("you are a big boy and big boys don't cry or feel scared!"). Kidding again, Momo. Interestingly, in the morning, when he is able to carry on a conversation, he consistently--and by that I mean, every single time we ask--reports his bad dream to be about a bee coming into his room. Weird.


I told my dad, who informed me that recently he had asked Andrew what noise a bee made and was surprised to hear Andrew's rendition: a loud and very aggressive / angry buzzing. He had thought it was strange; I guess it makes more sense now, but I still wonder about the origin of the fear.

Will: It all started out so promising. You slept for like 7 hours at week two. Then your weight became an issue and I had to awake you all the time to nurse. Now you get up every 4 hours or so. This is not that big of a problem, considering my background in Andrew's Intense Sleep Disorder. At least your sleeping hours are in a crib, not attached physically to me in my bed.

But you have a very interesting quirk. You hate singing. I have tried to force my songs upon you, but it almost always has caused immediate and intense distress. I even once tried waiting until you were asleep in my arms before seranading you softly. I tried doing it while not looking at you, a sort of superstitious approach. At first I thought it had worked; you were motionless in my arms. I looked down at you, expecting to find a peaceful little slumbering face. But no; your eyes had popped wide open in what truly appeared to be shock. I have given up.


Your dad discovered an even weirder thing about your falling asleep preferences. You like to be whistled to sleep. The advantage of this is that I don't have to listen to Brigham mess up all the words to very popular LDS children's songs that we sing constantly in our home and to which Andrew knows all the words (like I Am a Child of God. Really.). I think I actually awakened your brother once in a loud attempt to correct Brigham's bizarre rendition. It makes me laugh every time I hear your dad back there whistling away. I know you will be asleep soon.

Andrew's favorite song was "As I Have Loved You." When he hears it on his little CD, he tells me that it is a Mommy song. Singing that song stopped tears almost immediately in almost all situations. Only recently has its power waned.

Do you want to know the one song you have tolerated a few times? Elvis' Can't Help Falling in Love. I think its perfect.

Morning Mishap

Monday 7:30 a.m.: Will is still asleep, thereby invoking the rule that I get to remain asleep and Brig will get Andrew situated as he prepares to leave for work. Through the haze, I understand Brig to whisper to me that Andrew is watching Sesame Street and he is leaving. The show will end in 20 minutes. Forty minutes later, I walk into the living room to find that the tv did not automatically turn off, as I had thought, when the recorded program ended. Instead, it reverted to whatever happened to be playing on the station it happened to be on. Our tv is usually set to TNT. In the morning, this means Angel, apparently.

In case you don't know, this is an awful spin-off of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. yes. Here are some of the characters:

Andrew looked a bit worried. "This is a Mommy show." He reported. "Those are bad people; they were fighting." When I asked him if it scared him, he replied, "Alilbit."

I guess I am just glad Charmed wasn't on.

This and That: April on Connecticut Ave

Cherry Blossoms like nowhere else

Between session of General Conference on that Sunday, we braved the cold weather to see the blossoms at their peak. It was beautiful. Sam decided to escape the freezing ordeal by slipping into immediate unconsciousness. Is he a fighter? That's the best we've got. Oh well. He reportedly loves Brigham now for carrying him.


The highlight of the month was that Brigham's family (with the exceptions of Momo, a devastating absence for me, and Paul and Claire) was in town last week. Sisters Katie and Abby left on Saturday, and we were so so sad to see them go. Unfortunately, my tech crew (brigham) was unable to rotate the photos I wanted to use, so I was left with the dregs that happened to be rotated the right way. Please note that all subjects are far more attractive in real life. Notables of the trip included:

The Cherry Blossom parade Katie participated in with her high school. The weather would have been perfect had it not rained. But even the rain was at least memorable.
Andrew received his very own hoop in the mail. Words failed him.







Everyone but me and Will went to a Nationals game (feel sorry for them, dear reader, not me. I will choose most things over a baseball game).

Abby, Andrew, Will and I picnicked on pizza on Connecticut Ave before a daunting journey to the Air and Space Museum. This date marks the first time Andrew ate pizza by the slice, rather than by the forkful. Will was the main event at the museum. For me and his aunts, at least. He was in a super mood. Andrew was out cold. Abby punctuated our journeying with comments about street contacting. Another big difference btwn my missionary experience and Abby's: I was relieved upon returning home that I no longer had to engage in these awkward encounters; Abby misses them.

We ate lots of pizza, did lots of walking and I got lots of help from my wonderful little sisters-in-law. (Return to me.)

We knew that Momo was ready for her family to come back when, the night before the girls were to fly out, Katie and Momo engaged in 2 (or 3?) separate phone conversations, all initiated by Momo. They went something like this:

"Hi Katie, what are you doing?"

"Eating dinner."

"Oh, I should let you go. What are you eating?"

An hour later:

"Hi Katie. What are you doing?"

"Eating dessert."

"What are you having?"

"Brownies and ice cream."

"Who made them?"

"Brigham."

"Oh. What kind of brownies?"

I realize that this exchange was funnier when told to me in person, but I thought you might get a kick out of it, anyway, Momo.

Catching Up: Andrew is Totally P.T.

Monday, March 24, 2008: Potty Training officially began.
I saw that the weather forecast was predicting nice warm weather at the end of the week and I decided to use my last known cold weather week to make me feel justified in remaining cooped up inside all day.
Without bothering to dress my son.
And feeding him cookies and chocolate under no sense of private shame.

We started Monday; I let him jump, urine-soaked, on a trampoline on Tuesday (when we babysat for my friend and I couldn't drag him off to do his business); and he did have another accident (urine only) that Sunday at church (for which I blame his father for blindly following our 2 year old's lead on whether or not he had to go rather than my instruction that he did) and then we were done. I will skip all the fun and interesting stories and simply say that Andrew is completely trustworthy in his soccer ball underwear.

In an interesting insight into Andrew's personality, on the few occassions when we had a mishap (a far too high potty with no stool during Emma's birthday party and a fiercely independent boy who refused to notify either parent of his bathroom needs), he was very hard on himself. Worse, even, than when he misses a shot at his little basketball hoop. "I missed!" he shrieked angrily. "I made a mistake! Put a diaper back on me!" He demanded this in shame. It was sad and fascinating. I was sort of proud of him for his determination and pride. I told him that we all make potty mistakes sometimes. I knew that it would evenatually come in handy that I had an accident in my 5th grade classroom. No such thing as an accident, right? ha. Luke's humiliation at an emergency room recently also helped assauge Andrew's self-loathing. He listened to these examples and seemed to feel a lot better.

Another interesting insight into Andrew's psyche was that he then felt the need to confess his failure to Emma. "I almost made it, but I missed, Emma!" Another thing my son has in common with his mom. (The first being the sweet tooth).

So, Andrew, for future reference, this is how we got you potty trained:
1. Naked from the waist down.
2. Homebound
3. Bribes: Reeses Pieces and hersey kisses (didn't spoil your appetite, but got you motivated)


4. Praise: We would cheer hysterically, dementedly (we = me)
5. Appealing to your sense of PRIDE: telling you about all the big kids who use the potty and then asking them to tell you about it and their lack of diapers.

You inform all around you of your new skill. You treated the missionaries to a full regale of your abilities and your undergarments during a dinner at Nana and Papa's house.

And every time you race for the potty, I feel a big sense of accomplishment, too.

The Universe Just Reminded Me

"All identities--awe-filled teenage girl, independent woman in her 20s, love-besotted mother--are astonishingly, mournfully brief."

The Mean Man

I gave in to my base desires and allowed teenager Andrew to nap from 3 to 5pm yesterday. He needed the sleep, and I needed the break. I knew that I would pay later, but I am sort of an instant gratification kind of person.

As a result, Andrew and Brigham got to spend some quality time together last evening. Brig took Andrew grocery shopping while Will and I eagerly awaited the ice cream from the comfort of our home.

Andrew, always prepared, brought along his "pack-pack" (photo below of said pack, taken at his birthday party last October. He wasn't ready to share that gift with the giver, Piper Cannon.)



As they were leaving the building, they passed a man entering the laundery facilities. Andrew wanted to show him his Lightning Akeen pack-pack. "Hey, guy, look! I have a pack-pack!" and so forth, with explanations of the car featured on the bag etc. The man never even glanced at Andrew.

He tried his best for probably two minutes before he walked back to his dad and declared, "That's a mean guy, Daddy. That guy is mean." He wasn't upset or anything; he said it as a declaration of fact.

I hope he means this in a different way from when I refuse to let him eat Oreos for lunch sometimes and he tells me I am a mean mommy.