Kelly is Reading and Writing

Kelly (turning 5, 9/25) is showing early interest and aptitude reading and writing.

I just found this example of his writing on the scanner from last month.  After breakfast he asked me if he could write some words.  I said, "Sure what word would you like to write?"  Kelly thought for a second and said, "Bat."

"What letter makes the beginning sound of bat?"

Making the B sound, Kelly replied, "B, b, b, bee!"

And then the kid wrote the letter B, unassisted by me. I told him the next letters were, A and then T.  I coached him a bit with the A but he made the T without my help. "What word do you want to write next?"

Kelly, a rhyming fool, said, "Cat."

He then wrote, as you can see:
CAT
SAT
MAT
ON
MO(M)

He switch back to rhyming with PAT.  Kelly was getting frustrated writing the A in Pat, so I made the A for him - not my best work.  Either way, this was all very surprising to me that Kelly was able to produce this quantity of words.  We read stacks and stacks of books together (we recently finished James and the Giant Peach and are currently working on The Mouse and the Motorcycle), but we've done very little writing work with Kelly.  Whatever writing instruction they are providing at his pre-school, Kelly is picking it up.

For Father's Day, dear Gram Mary sent an early reader type book (we are fortunate that she sends books for almost every holiday) about a boy "helping" his dad.  Kelly, responsible for reading all the "Dad"s, "The"s and a few other common words, made me read the book with him ten times a day for several days. 

After I discovered the site with a random web search, Kelly has enthusiastically been working to complete every phonics drill and prodding me to read every terrible web book on Starfall.com.   The other night when I was putting the finishing touches on a dinner, Kelly asked if I could do the "reading game" with him.  I said I would love to do the reading game but, I'm sorry, we are about the sit down for dinner.  We'll do it first thing after, that will be fun, buddy.  With this disappointing news, Kelly flew into a hysterical tantrum, the likes of which we have not seen from him for sometime now.  What can I say, the kid really loves to read.

The boys love reading, writing, and decorating all sorts of things with stickers.

 

Three Boys = Two Miles of Fun

Last week, Beck, Kelly, Rhys and I had a blissful “boys night.”  While Catherine was hosting another worthy charity function, KRB and I struck out on adventures in the neighborhood.  My plan was to have K and R roll down the hill on their push bikes with B tagging behind on his scooter, I'd hoof it (it's only a five minute walk, at most), and we'd all chow some quality 'zza at the Bonnie Brae Tavern.  As I outfitted Rhys with his helmet, using standard 3 year-old grammatical conventions, he inquired, "You riding you bike daddy?"

Hmmm, I hadn't thought of that, Big Boy. 

I usually patrol our neighborhood bike rides on foot, so I can easily position myself for traffic control on street crossings, give Beckett an encouraging word, a push up a hill, or clean off a dirty wheel (Beckett has become irritatingly particular about the cleanliness of his machine and will often stop, yelling while pointing at some minuscule speck, "Dirty, dirty, dirty, daddy!").  On foot, I'm also better able to peel bleeding, howling monkeys off the sidewalk after a minor tumble.  And it is true of late, I have a hard time keeping up with Kelly and Rhys, even at a jog.  I gave Rhys a shinning red Specialized Hot Walk push bike for his birthday and finally convinced him not to brawl with Beckett for control of the scooter.  After only about three weeks of practice on the pushbike, Rhys can handle himself well enough to keep up with Kelly, if Kelly's not in a racing mood.

So, yes! Rhys, I will ride my bike (with the two-boy trailer attached, in case someone melts) with you and your brothers, two, tonight. 

As I mounted up the boys, ready to roll, played a game of bike tag, chasing each other in tight circles in the ally – a sight that would make their grand mothers gasp. After Beckett "helped" me pump up my tires, I ordered full speed ahead and in an instant Kelly, leading the charge, and Rhys, snapping at his heels, where almost instantly around the first corner and out of my line of sight. We practice stopping at alleys and street crossings almost every evening and Kelly and Rhys, my well drilled cadets, did a perfect job stopping and waiting for me to catch up with Beckett at every intersection.  

We rolled down the hill to the Bonnie Brae shopping area in record time and were having so much fun we sped right past the Bonnie Brae Tavern, our planned pizza stop.  After crossing University Blvd. at a safe crosswalk with a light, miraculously, Kelly and Rhys pushed right past Bonnie Brae Ice cream, bustling, as always, with a summer afternoon crowd forking over $3 a scoop for their house made creamy goodness, without whining or even asking with please and sugar on top, if we could stop for so much as a taster spoon.  When we reached the strip of old shops on South Gaylord Street, a few blocks later, Kelly and Rhys made a mad dash down the street dodging window shoppers and zigzagging around clods of restaurant goers.  In a snap they put a half-block gap on Beckett and I, at a stroll. 

Watching Beckett parade down the South Gaylord like a triumphant quarterback in a post-Superbowl celebration, smiling and squeaking, “HI!” at almost everyone reminded me of his mama - best friend to all.  Delighted by the friendly little toddler easing, expertly, on down the road – smooth as oil - on his scooter, I grinded and nodded hello to the strangers Beckett set alight with chuckles and smiles.  

B and I caught up to K and R at the corner at the far end of the block where they dutifully waited, then we all ducked into a little diner called The Local.  The Local offers the most extensive kids menu I have ever seen and breakfast fare is served all day - breakfast for dinner boys!  This was a huge ride for my little trio of tiny urban adventures.  I was interested to know how far we traveled to The Local.  After a few clicks and keystrokes, Google maps plotted and measured our circuitous route: 1.0 miles! 2.0 miles round trip!  Both Kelly and Rhys did the entire distance, unaided, on their bikes.  In order to cross Bonnie Brae Blvd. at rush hour, I snatched up Beckett and forced him to ride in the trailer, but my little man pushed his scooter all the way home, the up hill leg of our amusing two miles of fun. 

Sorry the formatting and paragraphing problems.  The page editor blew a gasket when I added the photos and I can't seem to fix it. 

Please stay tuned for "Our Summer Vacation, Part II: Halitosis and sleep deprivation in Purgatory".  I'm working on it.  Read Part I: Upholstered Roadkill by clicking here!  

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Our Summer Vacation, Part I: Upholstered Roadkill

6/3/11

Over the winter Catherine and I were talking about the upcoming year, making decisions about travel and schedule.  We decided to keep things simple (unusual for us) this summer and not fly back to Michigan.  So, of course, a few weeks later, Catherine booked us at a great place in Montana in June.

I got all huffy and lathered up and gave a speech about Colorado, the amazing place we are fortunate to call home and my diver deep desire to share her beauty with my boys.  I may have also crossly muttered something about not understanding why we should drop two grand on airfare to Montana when we have the bounty of the Colorado Rocky Mountains less than a day’s journey away.  So, my lovely wife, took a deep breath, gave me a look of death (she was rightly annoyed after I had given a half-hearted green light to the initial Montana idea) and graciously agreed researched other vacation options in the Centennial State.  She called the timeshare exchange operator and located an available week at a condominium at the Purgatory Mountain Resort, near Durango, the first week of June.  Thanks honey! A road trip to Durango was just the ticket.  I’m excited. She was excited, too.  

Months later, vacation day loomed.  Almost unexpectedly, our vacation started tomorrow and we were clamoring to put a bow on work tasks, pack up the troops, and hit the tarmac for our seven-hour ramble to Durango.  We, in this instance, is Catherine (an ageless beauty), Kelly (4), Rhys (weeks from his 3^rd birthday), Beckett (22 months), Anna, our Colombian au pair, little old me, and my big new mountain bike (3 mos.).  Our gang and compliment of gear for a week long vacation in the mountains would not fit in one vehicle, not even our cavernous Honda Odyssey.  Plus, we were meeting Catherine’s father, Joe, and his girl friend, Taylor, Catherine's brother, Jeff and his girl friend, Rachel, in Durango - two cars then.  Kelly, his "Pillow Pet", named Crash, my bike, and I drove point, while Catherine followed with boys number two and three, and Anna.

Catherine and I were both stressed about the prospects of confining Kelly, Beckett and Rhys in a car for the better part of a day.  Our trio are all great little guys but they are all still very young and can behave like unbridled, green, swap land imps when they get tried, hungry, and bored - a certainly in triplicate on this road trip.  We imagined endless harmonic waves of screaming, a meltdown in high def, 3-D. While the Odyssey was armed with a cache of new DVD’s from the library for entertaining Beck and Rhys during the long highway run, I gambled and chose to run a video free environment for Kelly.

We thought the drive from Denver to Durango would, at best, be wasted time the kids and adults could endure together and then we’d carry on with our mountain vacation.  The road trip, it turned out, was an unexpected pleasure, giving me the rare, no, unprecedented opportunity to spend seven uninterrupted hours with Kelly, my startlingly bright, perpetually inquisitive four year-old son.  With the bustle of day-to-day life, work, and the demands of his two little brothers (and his mother), the drive from Denver to Durango was the longest time Kelly and I had ever spent together, just the two of us, father and son - an unforeseen gift of quality time.

At first, Kelly wasn’t talking much, so I a started a game of count the cars, a game, which, turns out, at 10 a.m. on a major Denver highway, is supremely difficult.  I suggested we pick a color.  Kelly picked white – still too hard.  We needed a color that Kelly could count at a reasonable measure and I could count without the fear of driving off the road, so I offered up blue - manageable but we still were hitting double digits in just a few miles.  Next, we tried yellow - rare but not as rare as you’d think if, like we were, you’re counting delivery trucks and boxes-on-wheels, the Ryder trucks.  Anyway, count the cars petered out by the time we hit Genesee and I could still see Denver’s skyline in the rear view. Oh super-pooper crap, this is going to be a long trip, if Kelly was already bored.

Genesee just happened to be a place I’d taken the boys on numerous “Daddy Adventure Days” to sled, create snow people, stomp in the woods, and observe the local heard of bison.  As we neared the bison viewing area, I quizzed Kelly, “Do you remember what animals live near here?”

“Ohhh, the buffalo.”

“Yes, right, the buffalo, the bison heard lives just at the top of this hill.  Remember when we’ve stopped to look at them this winter? Do you think they’ll be there today?”

“Yes, I remember them and the poop.”

“Oh, well.  It looks like the bison are somewhere else today.”

Kelly replied, “Where did the buffalo go?” 

And his questions did not stop for the next seven hours.  Questions - astonishing questions - continuously formed the meaty depths of his developing brain and, as mile after mile ticked off the odometer, like the swollen river on our 9 o’clock for much of the trip, the questions flowed mightily out of his articulate mouth.

We talked about everything. For the first half of the trip, everything included the vast swath of Colorado’s high country Kelly could see, perched on his monkey-faced booster seat, from the passenger-side window.

“Look, a waterfall!  Where does the water come from?”

“Look the tunnel.  I’ve been in this tunnel.  Why did they make this tunnel?  Couldn’t we just drive over the mountain? How do you make a tunnel?”

"Look birds. What kind of birds are those? How do birds fly so high?"

From mile one to 385, Kelly, like Catherine’s favorite Sunday evening call from the Lupis Foundation telemarketer, regularly pinged me with the question, “Are we in 1^st place?”  Our first-born son, has a serious case of ECS (eldest child syndrome) and, as a symptom, is constantly concerned about his comparative position in the pecking order.   On rare occasion, when I had to inform him we were “a close 2^nd””, I felt, for one of the first times in his young life, like I was seriously failing him as a father.  No, not really. Well, maybe, this statement has a shade of truth, but, damn, that Honda Odessy has geddy up on the highway and Catherine’s not shy about putting her foot down, on the gas pedal or otherwise.  Sorry, son.

Either way, Kelly, Crash, my luscious big cherry red and white mountain bike (she’s so delicious I sometimes urn to link her dirty bottom bracket) reached the Eagle exit in first place.  This time I had a question, “Kelly, do you remember who lives, here, in Eagle?”

“Yes, Aidan, Alex and Antie Steph!  Can we wave to them?”  And Kelly started waving, sweetly, to his life long buddy, Aidan, and his little sister, who he might have a thing for. 

I waved along, too, smiling at my little boy and his generous heart.

Fifteen minutes and twelve questions later, I was telling him about Glenwood Canyon and how the river use to be way up at the top, up there, and over a very, very long time the flowing water eroded the rock away the river, cut into the rock and made the canyon.

“What’s eroded mean?“

“Good question.” And I took a stab at explaining this complex, eon-long process as simply as I could.  Kelly seemed to understand exactly what I was explaining and, as I concluded, he even synthesized a brief summary of my lesson on erosion. 

“Do people climb these mountains?" Kelly’s questioned.  “How does a mountain climber get a rope up there to climb it?”  We talked a little bit (because I only know a little bit) about top-roping and lead climbing a mountain.

After we cleared the 8-mile long 40 M.P.H. construction zone clogging Glenwood Canyon, I revved her back up to speed.  Conferencing with mama behind us, it was too early for lunch in Glenwood, but Rifle, another 25 miles down stream, would be an ideal place to grab a quick meal before pressing on to Purgatory. 

It was noon, we were loosing elevation and the temperature was climbing on Colorado's Western Slope.  I, being a cheep ass, in a long line of cheep-asses, ignored the A.C. and rolled down some windows and deployed the sunroof to ventilate the truck.  Kelly loved this maneuver.  The rush of wind in his face made him smile.  Then, he stuck his hand out the window.  A grin then a giggle bubbled through him as the turbulence from our 76 mph dash to Rifle pushed against his hand, moving it up down and all around.  Kelly’s usual position in the minivan is in the way back next to an inoperable window, so, maybe, he’s never really had a chance to do some proper hand flying.  Sorry, son, I have failed you, yet again.  He, of course, asked why the wind moved his hand.  We discussed aerodynamics, as Kelly’s hand knifed the wind.

Kelly’s laughs and giggles flipped without benefit of a warning shot to a bowel-flipping sheik (unfortunately, a common occurrence in many tales of thy three sons), “Pillow pet!!!!!! Pillow, pill, pill, pillow peeeeet!”

The hard road had just given Kelly another unexpected and cruel lesson in aerodynamics.  He, apparently, wanted to let his dogie Pillow Pet, Crash, have a turn sticking his head out the window.  It did not go well for Crash.  The wind grabbed Crash and, before Kelly knew what hit him, his beloved pillow pet was tumbling down I-70 at 76 mph. It took me a few seconds to decipher Kelly’s hysterical wailing and deduce what had happened to good old Crash - upholstered road kill, lost forever.

“Oh, Kelly.  I’m so sorry. You can’t stick things out the window.  It’s just a pillow.  We can get another one.”

“Get pillow pet. Get pillow pet. Get pillow pet. Get pillow pet!!!!!! Cra, cra, cra, Craaaaassh!!!!”

“Oh, honey we can’t turn around or stop on the highway. It’s too dangerous. We’ll get you another one,” replied with as much calmness and sympathy as I possessed.          

My phone started buzzing four seconds after Crash was rudely sucked out the window.  Catherine had seen a flash of something fly out of our window and was concerned.  I answered the call with Kelly still full-on freaking out behind my right ear.

“What was that?”

“Pillow pet is gone.”

“That was the pillow pet?” 

“Yes.”

“Tell him we’ll get him another one.”

 “I did, of course.  I’m gona let you go – gotta situation here.  See you in Rifle.”

Our Summer Vacation, Part II: Sleep deprivation and halitosis in Purgatory, coming soon!

A Meeting to Remember

Kelly and Beckett have their ears on and they're watching our every move, too.

Just as Pebe was serving up homemade mini-pigs-in-a-blanket for her trio of beloved grandsons, I dismounted and clomped in the door in my tap shoes. I washed my filthy hands (I had been fixing grimy bikes at the Trips for Kids shop) and joyfully grabbed a seat at the table with my three sons.  I delighted in observing Kelly carefully eat his meal, dissecting each savory morsel, first, picking the doughy “blanket” off with his teeth before chomping the juicy “piggy.”  Beckett and Rhys enthusiastically joined in and beamed as I, for reasons unknown, halfway through dinner, belted out a few verses of Annie’s “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow.” (Dinner is always better with show tunes, don’t you think?) With our chins up, arms raised and hands shimmying like a true Broadway chorus, we all shrieked, screamed, and sung, as best we could muster, the crescendoing finale, “It’s on-ly a day aaaa-waaaaaaay!” and gave ourselves a rousing round of giggling applause. 

It had been a busy week.  It was already Wednesday and the boys hadn’t sniffed a bar of soap since their pre-Easter dunk and delousing on Saturday.  At some juncture, while chowing on mass quantities of piggies and their tasty blankies, Rhys crapped himself.  As she frenetically cleaned the kitchen, Pebe could smell Mr. Rhys’ ripe britches from the kitchen sink.  Collectively, we stunk like an old man farting in a mud puddle.  After cleaning their plates, the boys enjoyed one small piece of Easter candy each.  With a fresh layer of chocolate film smeared on their chins, the boys where served orders to march and "get soapy."

Rhys and his hot load of something special, a bit shower-phobic these days, was assigned to take a bath with Pebe. I led Kelly and Beckett into the master bath for a shower.  Beckett was a bundle of energy after sucking down a bite-size chocolate Easter egg for dessert.  He was crowing about subjects unknown and was wiggling his naked little ham hocks and doing dangerous silly-spins, I call them, on the slick glass tile floor.  In an effort to save him from additional head trauma, (see the blog entry Beckett: Small, Human, Crash Test Dummy) I snatched him mid-twirl and plunked him down in a seated position next to his mostly naked big brother.  After Kelly pulled off his last sock, ready to shower, he turned to Beckett and said, “Let’s have a meeting. Here’s your wine. Here’s mine.  Drink up.” Kelly tipped his head back and drank from an imaginary wine glass.

For the record, I enjoy a beer or two every so often, but I don’t really drink wine.  Catherine has, actually, been on a health kick and for the last 6.2 weeks has not sipped a single glass of wine or consumed anything containing alcohol.  We both, on a regular basis, host “meetings” for our various charitable causes where wine and beer keep the agenda flowing and attendance higher than without. While this tale of Kelly’s micro meeting, like a punchline devilishly delivered by an edgy comedian, is humorous it also uncomfortably conveys a jolting shock factor.

I try to teach the boys something new everyday – helping them discover new worlds in a book, introducing them to unknown neighborhood flora and fauna, or simply coaching them to, triumphantly, remove their own muddy shoes.  Kelly’s comments to his little bro certainly taught me, for better or worse, we teach them unintended lessons with every word, gesture, and action we make in view of their observant eyes and attentive ears.  I hope I can teach them, both with my actions and words, directly and obliquely, the right lessons they need to grow, thieve and be happy young men.   With consolation, I conclude, I haven’t ruined them, yet.

 

Rhys, before....

And after.

What makes you happy, Kelly?

 

This morning I was a grouch. Sleep issues, followed by a steaming cup of ass-monkey brand coffee (we ran out of the good grind), zapped the jingle from my jangle and had me thinking about moving to Australia. 

This afternoon was another story.  I was out riding my bike, again, of course.  Correction: I was out riding my spectacular new red and white, carbon, Specialized Epic 29er full-on, race rig on a ribbon of white, snowy, icy, slushy fun that is the normally mind-numbing South Platte bike path. I was loving life on this unexpectedly righteous ride and thinking: "This makes me happy. What else makes me happy?"

Of course, The Kelly, Beckett and Rhys show instantly flashed on in my mind movie. I'm a lucky man.

Then, I thought about one of my long held, simplistic, personal values: I'm pro happy people.  I believe people should do what makes them happy, when possible, and as long as it doesn't unreasonably impact the happiness of others. "Are Kelly, Beckett, and Rhys happy?" I wondered,"What makes them happy? I should ask them."

So, I did. I marched in the house and still dress in my soggy, silly cycling gear, I sat the boys down at our dinner table. Not trying to take too serious a tone, they are tiny little dudes, after all, I said, "Boys, it's important to me that you are happy. Are you happy?"

I planned to type their, "What makes you happy?" responses into the good ol' laptop but the battery was dead. The Post-Its turned out just right, I think.  Kelly, Rhys and I all had a laugh with Beckett's babbled answers.  He was trying to say something, I assure you that, but all I could make out was, "Deed do wait.  Ha do do. Yah."

Rhys didn't really get my drift, at first, but after listening intently to Kelly's loving replies he did a great job (Rhys loves to say, "I did a great job, Daddy!?). His answers where so sweat and concise and stated exactly as I recorded them.         

Kelly did say, "And Pebe! (his grand mother)" at the end but Beckett, sitting on my lap with Rhys, started licking the table. Rhys took exception to this discourteous act and a minor dust up ensued at my midline. So, without noting Kelly's last happiness, I nabbed the sticky notes, told Rhys I need his help pushing buttons and dragged him into the office to help me scan away. Kelly selected the photos and Beckett edited my horrifyingly poor grammar and fixed numerous typos that littered the text.  It was a team effort. It was a happy day.

My next post, titled the Common Loon, will examine Kelly's odd obsession with bird books.  Stay tuned.
   

Tale of Poo, Part 62: Splash Down

Beckett is rocking a huge salad. I wonder why everyone thinks he's a girl?

1/27/11

After a productive meeting with our Trips for Kids board chair, I dashed west and mounted my road bike for a one and a half hour spin up Deer Creek Canyon.  I dressed for the 50 degree, sunny weather at the bottom and froze my ass off as the waning afternoon sun vanished just 15 minutes up the canyon.  As I forced a big gear, puffing, and grinding upward, the air chilled and the frozen road surface crackled under my wheels.   I climbed for 45 minutes, ignoring my numb fingers and block ice feet.   The speedy decent was truly painful – brain freeze via bike, the same sensation as drinking a Slurpie too fast - and all I could think was, “I’m the luckiest man alive.  I’m the luckiest man alive because when I walk through the door my three tiny sons will beam, squeal ‘daddy’ and waddle, rush, and stampede to hurl themselves into my arms.”  Or something awesome like that, I imagined.

Well, it turns out, in my exercise-induced haze and freezer-burned mind, I slightly overestimated the gallantry of my homecoming greeting from the boys.  I threw open the door at around 5:30 p.m. to embrace my crew and didn’t hear a peep.   Hmmmm?  Silence is a rare state in our house during the pre-dinner, post-nanny, chaos time.  The hush was interrupted by Catherine in the kitchen asking, “Who wants another piece?”

I peaked around the corner and before me my trio of boys were mowing down a frozen pizza, working in silence, devoted to the task at hand.  Mommy spotted me and said, “Hey! Look who’s here.”  Kelly, Rhys and Beckett all turn toward me and, with mouths muffled by half-chewed bites of ‘zza, chorused, “Daddy!”  Their enormous smiles, especially our messiest of the messy eaters Rhys, were stained, like sloppy circus clowns, with bright red pizza sauce.

We were scheduled to go out with friends in an hour to continue Catherine’s birthmonth celebration, (a single day has never been enough for my bride), so Catherine gave me an equally welcoming, tomatoless smile, a peck and asked me to sit with the monkeys while she showered and did her face.  I happily accepted this duty and started chatting up the boys, “How was your day Kelly?’ I asked.

After thinking about the question while taking a long slug of milk from his neon green sippy cup, Kelly informed me,  “Rhysie didn’t take a nap.”  

Hearing his name, Rhys stared at his brother, locking in on Kelly’s words.

“He just cried and cried and didn’t sleep,” Kelly continued. 

Rhys’ stare lingered on Kelly, considering his words with, seemingly, great care.  After a few beats he slowly turned toward me with sadness etched on his cherubic, pizza face, his full lower lip pouting. With his glasses removed - discarded who knows when, who knows where - and his long blond bangs covering the upper orbit of his eyes, he reminded me a of a sheep dog puppy who just learned his flock had been sold for mutton. In a voice a just  a notch above a whisper, Rhys frankly explained his naptime crisis, “I wanted my mommy.”

Trying to comfort him with a joke, I said, “Oh, I’m sorry Rhysie Roo.  Mommy was working at the coal mine today.”

My logical Kelly flashed a quizzical look at me and asked flatly, “Where is the coal mine?”

“Oh, I’m just kidding buddy.  Mommy was working at an office today.  In an office building downtown.”

“Oooh”, said Kelly.  “Mommy is going to take me to her office sometime,” he said grinning so widely he was almost laughing. 

Rhys, 2, as is his custom, immediately did an emotional 180, transforming from sad puppy into his familiar role as the pissed off parrot, “No! Mommy is taking me to her office, too!!!”

To cut acrid, simmering sibling rivalry, I changed the subject and launched into my jester act by spewing out a few nonsensical rhyming words, my standard parenting playbook material.  “Hey, Kelly, listen! Elephant, smell-a-pant.” 

Giggling, Kelly took the bait and chimed back with a rhyming pair of his own, “Elephant, jellypants.” 

Rhys, trying to play along, gave it a shot, “Elephant-aaaaaaah. Pudding!” Kelly, so amused by Rhys’ poetic whiff, cackled for twenty seconds and then peed his pants.  I told him it was ok and sent him up to change while Rhys, Beckett and I continued with our dinner hour comedy shtick.

WARNING: If you choose to continue reading, the story is poop related, again.


Kelly had been up in his room for several minutes, changing I presumed (Kelly is now able to dress himself, save the finishing touches like pant-buttoning and zipping and minor details like successfully identifying the front of any given garment - think zipper butt) when I heard him start shrieking.  I dashed up the stairs to investigate.  I found Kelly in a panic, sobbing and repeating, “I have poop, in my pants.  I have poop, in my pants.“ 

“It’s ok buddy.  Let’s just get you cleaned up.  The wipes are right here and we have a drawer full of underwear and hats right here,” I said smiling as I stretched a pair of his tiny Thomas the Train (clean) undies over my head.   Kelly stopped crying, smiled and informed me, “That’s not a hat, silly turkey! That’s underpants!”

I gestured with the package of wipes for him to come over to me for a cleaning.  I gingerly pulled down the back of his pants and underwear, inspecting the damage and trying to gage the size of the ordinance I was dealing with before fully revealing the entire shebang. Thankfully, it was a single, ping-pong ball-size nugget, not one of his “man-poopies” that he famously unleashes on the world, every so often.  Hmmm, but how did toilet paper find it’s way in here? “Kelly why is there toilet paper in your underwear, buddy?”

“There’s pop in the toilet, too,” claimed Kelly with a triumphantly grin. 

“Really? You pooped in the potty?” I replied skeptically.  Kelly has never pooped in the potty, always waiting for a nap or nighttime pull up diaper to do his dirty work, and is a documented master “poop liar. (see the post "Vomit Reigns Supreme!, Good Morning Extreme Diarrhea”)

He smiled and took my hand and pulled me toward his bathroom. “See! Poop!” And, sure enough, to my utter surprise and infinite relief, a gorgeous three-inch long log of excrement lay at the bottom of the bowl.  A fresh shmear of crap, vertical in orientation, decorated the back inside rim of his potty seat, confirming that, in fact, Kelly, now four months north of four years-old, had just deposited a turd in the toilet for the first time in his life.

Rejoice, rejoice to the Porcelain Gods for terminating our torment and blessing our family with the righteous gift of properly placed fecal matter!  I pray, may Kelly’s holy shits and blessed piss, from this momentous day forward, be received solely by the sea!  Yo, hear our prayer!

Click here for more recent photos of the the crew!

The Answer is Gum

How do you break up a torrid, steamy affair between a highly sensitive 4-year old and his beloved reeking diaps? The answer to this icky situation is gum.

The old M&M trick worked well enough to get him to initially saddle up, sit, and squirt a few times when we thought he might pee.  But holy shit and blessed piss, our big boy Kelly still doesn’t mind, even prefers, crapping and peeing in his pants to making doo and wee in the can.  He’ll play away all day in soiled pants or a diap hanging heavy, saturated with pee – the old ten pounder, I call it.   He doesn't care or seem to mind one bit.

What do we do now parenting book pundits?  I can’t seem to find your informative, oh-so-easy, five-point plan for solving this challenge.  Yes, the chapter on how to crush a boy meets diaper love affair has not been written.  The parenting books say, potty training is tough; it will take patience, dear parent, but don’t fret, they’ll “get it” in a few weeks, a few months at most - just use a sticker chart, and loads of positive encouragement, but do not make too big of a deal about his successes.  Too much praise will cause pressure and may cork him up tight.

We tried every trick in their books.  Bribery with toys and candy: nope.  We attempted the old school, cold-turkey route saying, “Ok, Kelly, you’re four and such a big boy. No more diapers – just do it, kid.”  We marched him down stairs in his big boy undies and he promptly wet his pants and rolled logs of hot poo down his pant leg and on to the hardwood.  “Sorry, I didn’t make it. But that’s ok,” Kelly would say with a rye smile.

Yes, the answer is gum.  Here’s how our reward system works: if he produces urine in the toilet in the morning, after his morning juicing, he receives a half-stick of Extra brand sugarless bubble gum.  If he stays dry he can continue chewing and chomping all-day long.  I don’t care.  It’s the classic win-win in my book.  If he pees in his pants or pull-ups, he is required to surrender the gum.  He hates spitting out his gum, so he takes the time to sit and squirt.  He can then earn another piece by peeing in the toilet, not in his undies.

The system is not fool proof but the gum seems to act as a both an incentive and provides a constant reminder that he needs to stay dry by visiting the potty.  By using the gum plan Kelly has finally made a huge leap in the last week staying, mostly, dry at home.  Now we just need to figure out how to coax him into dropping a duce on the throne, rather than waiting for naptime to do his business in his pull-up.  Oh, and he won’t pee in a toilet outside our house: not at school, not at a friend’s house, the museum, and certainly not at a Conoco station with an anonymous fellow traveler making ghastly spurting sounds and spewing gnarly smells from the adjacent stall.

This horrific gas station bathroom scenario confronted Kelly on our New Years visit to our friends’ who live in the cozy mountain town of Eagle.  Anticipating a pit stop along the way, I packed Kelly’s little potty seat in the boot.  As I slapped it down on the toilet in the cramped, grimy stall, grunts and squirting sounds erupted from the neighboring head. Kelly stood frozen, assessing the situation for a moment, eyes darting between the other commode and what he must have feared to be his tiny torture camber.  Sensing his unmistakable distress, I calmly said, “Hop on Kelly.”

Kelly replied in the negative by jogging in place while squealing, “No, no, no, noooo.”

We retreated to the minivan without doing our business and pressed on.  The gas station situation must have scared the piss out of Kelly because he was still dry when we arrived in Eagle, another hour drive down the highway.  Way to go Kelly!  Our boy is making progress.

Turkey Soup

When told to eat his tomato soup our picky eater Kelly protested by saying,  "I'm not talented at soup."

Rhys, Nora, Kelly, and Cole dressed up for Thanksgiving 

but cheered up with a walk in mama's boots.

Beckett was sad he wasn't included in the photo...

Today in History: Firsts by Kelly and Beckett

In an act of fatherly love and despite his tearful protests, I removed Kelly's training wheels last week and forced him to ride his tiny little boy bike like a man. He ended up in the bushes and sprawled out in lawns throughout the neighborhood on the first few rides. I'd say, on ride #3 he got the hang of starting and stopping, the trickiest bits for a novice cyclist. Enjoy the video of Kelly riding during week two of his intensive training program with his overzealous, cycling-nut father. I have not ruined him yet!



Beckett is now walking unassisted across wide open spaces in our home. He has noticeably increased the pace of his unsteady, zombiesque, walking style since this video was shot a few weeks ago.




"I'm the diet but today I eat the cheese." a quote from an unidentified friend's nanny that we've been having fun with this morning.

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.

Bye-bye sweetie pie!

Good Stuff in Jackson Hole

The annual ski trip to Jackson Hole with the cousins resumed this year, unfortunately without Beckett and Catherine due to Beckett's second hospitalization of the season.

Kelly skied for the first time this week. The first day was a test of my physical strength, dragging Kelly along between my legs as he found his balance on his tiny 80 cm boards, pulling him up from frequent crashes and hoisting him onto the lift. He improved everyday, thanks to Uncle Pat's training harness, and by the end of the week was turning a little and stopping, sometimes.

The seven of us took a break from skiing on Wednesday and visited the Elk refuge, taking a jarring, horse drawn wagon ride out into the middle of the 5,500 head heard. The kids enjoyed the bumpy parts of the ride, when we rolled off the dirt path into the meadow, and the first 75 seconds of elk watching.

Thursday, we took the tram to the top of the mountain and treated the big kids to waffles smeared with jam, Nutella and brown sugar butter for lunch, the specialty of the rustic Corbit's cabin. The sunny ride up in the new tram had given us awesome views of the Jackson valley and the mountain range on the other side of the Hole. With waffles from the top of the world filling our guts, we headed down the tram in an unexpected snow storm for another afternoon doing laps on the bunny hill.

Kelly had a breakthrough day on his skies, day 3, making his first real turns and generally keeping pace with Cole and Nora. Kelly had a few falls toward the end of afternoon and wouldn't move a mussel to attempt to right himself. He just lay limp in the snow precisely in the same position he fell. The little kid skiing schedule dictated that Kelly skip naps the entire week and the littlest of the big kids seemed to be waring down. He was still having fun, though, and showed no volitle fits of frustration as had happened in day one and two. Halfway down the last run of the day, Kelly looked skyward and started singing nonsense. I barked to look where he was going or to turn, but didn't seem to hear my commands and continued his giggling singing song. I dragged Kelly up a few short flights of stairs and he staggered into the ski locker area. After I helped him strip off his Sponge Bob helmet and goggles, Kelly dropped to his knees and mumbled, "Everything's blue. Why is everything blue, dad?" His Nutella waffle power had run down to emty, so we refeuled, as we did most days apre ski, in the Teton Club's great room with a petite cup of hot (Kelly prefers his hot coco one degree above room temp) coco. Good stuff, really.

Rhys, somewhat ignored and saddled most of the week with a sitter while big people skied, got every one's attention the morning of our departure by spewing a frothy puddle of acrid OJ and lumpy oatmeal on the breakfast table. Bad-bellied, big boy seemed better but fussier than normal as we hurried to pack, muscled our way through the mob of huffy vacationers heading home at the JHole airport, and waited in line after line.

Well, two hours after leaving the comforts of the Teton Club, we finally navigated the gauntlet of incompetent airline employees, TSA check points, and sank into seats 18 E & D (middle and window) on our oversold flight. Kelly and Rhys did a great job for the first half of of the 65 minute flight snacking on goldfish, sipping flavored water from sippy cups, paging through the in-flight magazine and generally handling the rigors and stresses of the morning with more poise and ease than their exhausted pop and our most of our fellow travelers.

Rhys climbed up on my lap and cuddled up for a cat nap on my shoulder. An announcement from the cockpit informing us we would be landing in twenty minutes ended his ten minute snooze. Rhys lifted his sleepy head and looked me square in the eye and burped. After a three count delay, two dollops of regurgitated, pureed gold fish crackers escaped Rhys' maw, sticking on his blanky draped over his chest and, luckily, missed me. As I tended to the minor mess with a handy wet wipe, I was jolted by a slurry of well chewed bagel and cream cheese briefly marinated in orange Vitamin Water and stomach acid. The point blank blast of rank gut juice soaked me from my shirt collar to mid-thigh. I was able to soak up and block a portion of Rhys' surprise puke attack with his blanky, but we were both quite stinky and sodden.

At this point, Rhys was wailing with tears streaming and vomit dripping from his pudgy chin, Kelly was shrieking between dry heaves (Kelly is sensitive to foul fragrances) and I was stuck in the middle seat managing the mayhem, blocked in by our row mate, a young musclebound guy hinding behind his fly-like, fancy, fashionable (ladies?) sunglasses. This poor guy lost the seat lottery in a big way that day. As folks filed off the plane, I overheard a boy six or seven rows infront of us ask, "Mom, what's that stinky smell?"

"Someone got sick. Just breath through your mouth, Jimmy," she replied.

Good stuff, good stuff.