September 27, 2010

4,2,1 Blast Off: The Irish Triplets Bounce to Outter Space

Catherine and I were in Vegas gambling away Kelly's college fund (we actually ended up about $1,000, thanks to Cath's late heater on the blackjack table) and missed his official 4th birthday, September 24, 2010. He seemed to forgive us, and was even a bit confused about his exact birthday thanks to a weekend long birthday party started by Pebe on Friday. Like Tigger from one of Kelly's favorite new, old books, the classic version of Winnie the Pooh, my boy loves to bounce and bounce and bounce. Kelly's circular shaped UFO Bouncer unit was delivered promptly at 8:30 a.m. on Sunday, the morning of his 4th birthday party, just as the guest of honor was finishing his fine French toast breakfast he helped me make, nibblely cracking three eggs without loosing a single shard of shell.

"I jumped and jumped like a crazy rabbit." Kelly explained with a grin and glint in his eye as he recounted the party's highlights to our nanny on Monday. At the end of the party, it was time for the obligatory happy birthday song and cake/candle blowing event. I told Kelly it was cake time and he replied, "I don't want to eat cake."
"What?" I gave him an expectant stare, well maybe a glare.
He smiled and replied,"Alright, I'll blow the candles but I don't want cake."
He did just that, blowing out the candles and shyly enjoying being the focus of attention during "Happy Birthday." A beat after the song ended, Kelly scooted off his chair and trotted back to bounce in the UFO until bedtime.
"I'm all sweaty in my diaper." observed Kelly while taking a pee break. We're still trying to coax Kelly away from his beloved portable pee and poop collection system.

Rhys Notes:

Kelly observing his little brother, Rhys, trying to cool his oatmeal with his moist half-blow- half-spit method, "If you keep blowing like that it's just going to taste like drool."

Rhys puked in his oatmeal this morning, tripping off a chain reaction of screaming from Kelly, who was just outside the barf zone, and Beckett who instinctively just copies what his brothers are doing. Rhys calmed down eventually, we stripped off his sodden pj's and picked out a fancy outfit together (see photo).

Beckett Notes:

Beckett is walking around, but only if you trick him and offer your hand just out of his reach. He's just 13 months old and surprisingly easy to fool.

Here's a great photo of Beckett with his great grandfather, Grampie Wege.

September 20, 2010

The Three Goodwillie Goofs: Massive Minutia You'd Rather Not Know, September 2010

Reader Note: If you're interested in watching the boys in action, doing all kinds of funny stuff, videos of the crew can be found here on YouTube.

Kelly, aka, "The Hammer" Kelly turns four this week on September 24th.
Kelly has taken to the great American pastime, baseball. Often in the evening, after our able nanny departs, Kelly insists on taking batting practice, serious batting practice, swinging for the fences, over and over, until dinner is served. He's a righty with a natural line drive swing. Thus, the new nickname: "The Hammer".

Well, we took "The Hammer" to his first major league baseball game this week, a day contest between the home Rockies (in the midst of a major hot streak), and the rival Padres. Kelly loved game and all the minor extravagances that, in composite, is a day at the old ballpark. Kelly wolfed down park dog with catsup, cracker jacks (the vegetable of his meal?) and purple cotton candy (Mom's call on that one). He quizzed us about the name of every new batter.

After Troy Tulowitzki cracked a three-run homer in the fourth, I hoisted Kelly up on my shoulders as the stadium and Kelly enthusiastically cheered the all-star shortstop during his jog around the diamond. Kelly pointed and laughed with a gleeful grin as the water fountain in center field erupted in celebration of the home team dinger.

It was hot in our sun-soaked boxed seats along the first base line, so we decided to take a walk around the stadium to explore and find some shad. We discovered a little kid t-ball batting cage out behind center and Kelly, after taking a few awkward swings with the longer, unfamiliar lumber, hammered the grapefruit sized wiffleballs into and over the miniature outfield wall until another future major leaguer wanted his turn.

As Tulow dug in for his third at bat of the game, we squeezed into a shady standing room spot along the railing behind the treed, pseudo mountainscape fountain area with a great view of the entire field. With two men on and after taking a few pitches, Tulow launched his second homer of the day into the left-field bleachers. The crowd went wild as the ball cleared the wall and Kelly lost his stuffing as the fountain shot five water spouts fifty feet or more in the air right in front of us. The Rockies beat the Padres 9-3 and won a new fan that day.

Overheard at Casa de Goodwillie:

"Kelly don't drive the car in your butt!" I said to Kelly as he was sprawled naked on his back with his feet in the air after a shower. Kelly was driving a matchbox car right up his, luckily, squeaky clean crack.

"Pebe (grand mother) you are so lucky you get to read to me tonight." Kelly.

Rhys, aka Big Boy, Boo Boo, Slick, or Rhysie Roo
27 months.

We found out Rhys' "Goodwillie eyes", in shape, also have provided him with our clan's characteristically poor vision. Rhys was fitted with fine wire-framed spectacles last week and is now sporting his "cool glasses." They have hooked earpieces and an oversized nose bridge that do an amazingly fine job of keeping them on, so far. Rhys, as per usual, while running around playing and performing other two-year-old business, has taken several face-first, head-whiper falls and the glasses stay, mostly, in place. He tries to remove them on occasion, but way less than we feared. We guess, well, he can see so much better with the glasses he wants to keep them on. Rhys has been know to, inexplicably, walk straight into walls, cabinets, and doors. I guess, in hind site, the low visual acuity in his left eye may explain these incidents. The glasses, like the rest of his general facial area, need a thorough cleaning after meals, but the glasses are certainly less of a pain in the ass than we imagined.

Rudely jolted from a dream, mountain climbing in the Swiss Alps, I believe, I open my eyes. In the dim, pre-dawn light of our bedroom, I see Rhys’ face two and half inches from my nose. He’s patting me on the side of my face and softly repeating, “Pooooooop….poooooop….poooooo….pooooop.”

I check the clock. It’s four fracking thirty. I reach around to pat him on the bottom and confirm what my nose and Rhys himself is already telling me: my boy is packing a special present, just for me, a pant-load of steaming hot, super stinky poop.

“Poooooop, Daddy. Poooooop.”

Rhys, two-years plus a month old, turned escape artist this summer, vaulting the rail of his crib before first light to visit our bed and spread the joy of sleep deprivation to his beloved parental units. He did this every night for almost a week toward the end of July and I, as night patrolman and alpha of the pack, had the job of returned the whining, cranky, little wanker back to his cozy confines. I issued a firm command, "It's time for night-night. It's time for night-night", put him in his crib and quickly left his room, not uttering another word. Surprisingly, to you, and even a bit to me, Rhys followed orders and returned to sleep, but I rarely did.

The damage to our circadian rhythms, night after night, lead us to what I thought was a desperate, likely-to-fail, solution: a crib tent. I installed the contraption, similar in structure, with jointed tubular aluminum support rods, and material to a modern domed camping tent - just without a floor. I was a crib tent sceptic but now I'm a true believer. Everyone, including Rhys, sleeps better when we tuck and zip him in for the night.

Another nighttime Rhys note: he insists on his caretaker providing him with "two blankies" before being put in his, now, tented crib.

Beckett, aka "The Brain", formerly "Big Head" (He still has a giant dome but we thought "The Brain" was more self-esteem enhancing than "Big Head."

Beckett took his first steps a few weeks ago, crawls as fast as cockroach on fire, and cruises around, walking around with the aid of furniture, cabinetry, or human hand. He's still cute as a button, just bigger and with a developing feisty streak. As the third child with two equally demanding big bros, he often does not receive the attention he deserves, as is apparent from the length of this blog dedicated to chronicling (very little of) his early life.