Who's a good boy?. . .

I find myself talking to my son like a dog sometimes. I'm sure that's normal. He's learned to ask to "wok" when he wants us to put him down. And most days the two of us take a little walk up and down our street. I find myself wanting to teach him to heel. . . I suppose holding his hand will have to do for now. I refuse to get a leash for my kid.

The praise "good boy" has been uttered by my wife more than once.

Of course he reacts like a dog sometimes too. When I ask him if he'd like to go for a walk he yells "wok" (like a bark) and gets excited. When I ask him if he wants a cookie (treat) he runs to the cabinet where we keep the cookies. He runs to the window when he hears a truck coming down the street. He even listens for other dogs and often barks back.

I suppose on the bright side he's stopped most of his chewing on everything and I've never seen him rub his butt across the carpet.

Limp wrist. . . .

I always wondered why I have long skinny wrists.

Everywhere I let the MonkeyBear walk in public he tries to pull away from me. He does it in that toddler way of pulling as hard as he can while still holding my hand (mostly because of the death grip I have on him). Because when I hold his hand I cover his hand and hold his wrist too. I can feel his wrist pulling really far—by my account anyway. I guess I was like that as a kid too. I worry I'm pulling his wrist out of it's socket.

Fire engine guy. . .

So UNcle Joe got our MonkeyBear a guitar for Christmas. It plays the guitar parts to "Smoke on the Water" and "Bad to the Bone." It's an occasional toy. Skipy Jr will pick it up every couple weeks, play with it for a day or two, and then it goes back in the corner, but he still really likes it.

Of course those two songs over and over get annoying so sometimes we turn it off.

And then he started singing Duh Duh Duuuh Duh Duh Da Da. . . "Smoke on the Water" to himself. It makes him sounds like Beavis and Butthead (I looked on YouTube I can't find the video of them doing it).

Talk to the hand. . .

By our recent count Skippy Jr. can now use about 10 signs and has about a 20-30 word vocabulary. So his communications skills are getter much better. Which really sucks. . .

I remember a simpler time when we guessed at what our baby wanted by offering him the things we were willing to offer him. Now he can ask for things we don't want him to have or things we don't want him to do. We he signs "help" so he can climb onto the couch we're so happy that he's communicating and understanding what is means to help. . . and then we're sad because he wants on the couch so he can grab the TV remote to try and turn it on. We he signs eat we used to think we were so lucky that we could finally know when he was hungry. . . now we don't like when he tells us that he doesn't want the macaroni he wants a cookie.

With any communication we've always tried to reward when he uses a word or sign properly. When he first learned to sign "more" we made sure he got more. When he first signed "eat" we made sure he got food immediately. Now when he asks for help it's help to say remove the obstacles preventing him from climbing onto a table, or reaching a breakable item that's just out of reach. I want to reward the use of the word but I'm not going to give him the glass candle holder.

Asking to color is good. He points to his crayons or magna-doodle and says "kakar." This morning he looked at the strawberry he painted (it's hanging on the fridge) at the Parents as Teachers play group we went to last night, said "kakar" and smiled. It was so cute, he knew that was his painting. Either that or he was asking to eat the paint like he had when he painted the picture.

Put down the laptop and hold me. . .

I found this article interesting. My wife is at least good and waits until after the MonkeyBear is asleep to spend forever on CafeMom.

Clarify. . .

I want to clarify something. . . I am happy with our current family dynamic. Yeah, I miss the passion my wife and I once had. I want that back. I'm working, I think, to get that back. I'm still just as crazy about her as I was when we first started dating.

That being said, when the three of us are playing on the living room floor. . . it's the best.

It's not perfect, but it's pretty damn good.

Says it all. . .

This article really says it all. . .

“My wife and I share a home and a bed. We kiss goodbye in the morning and hello in the evening with such ritualistic regularity that if one of them somehow gets missed, I worry it means bad luck.

What I remember most about our first years together was our laughter. We giggled in bed at night and over the course of long weekend mornings, lying on our backs, legs draped across each other's legs. Shameless hilarity in restaurants, malls, on the sidewalk -- a private world of absurdity and delight, in love with the ridiculousness of the world and each other.”

Broke?. . .

The monkeybear has declared that everything, especially the TV, is "broke." Everything used to be "ut-oh" now it's "broke."

Him (holding the TV remote and pointing it at the TV): Broke.
Me: It's not broke it's just off.

Him (after dropping a truck): Broke.
me: No, you just dropped it.

Him (holding the TV remote and pointing it at the TV again): Broke.
Me: No it's not broke, it's just on something you don't want to watch

Him (unable to open a window on his busy box): Broke.
Me: No, you just have to push the button harder.

Him (trying to fill his own cup at the fridge): Broke.
Me: No, not broke, we just turned on the child safety lock.

He says other words, but none as often.