Felix had a haircut this week, because he couldn't see past his bangs. I won't remember about it at all unless I write it down, as is evidenced by my look past through blogs from two or three years ago. All the little details of the kids changing and growing up get swallowed up in an exhausted haze of daily commutes, laundry-folding, dish-washing, practicing in the basement, and trying to tick through long to-do lists.
As is apparently my tradition this time of year, I want to do a better job blogging. Not just because it's good for me to write, or because it stokes my vanity to know that people are reading and enjoying my writing, but because I am in very real danger of completely forgetting huge stretches of the kids' growing up if I don't make some kind of record of it.
For example, Owen broke James' glasses twice. (Both times on purpose) Last week we ran them back up to the eye place (which we love) and they straightened some bent plastic. Last night he snapped the other side clean off, so they are currently taped together. We need to get it done before the 31st, or else the new insurance won't cover it.
Felix is doing what James used to do when it was time for a bottle. ("Ba-ba," in his own words.) He camps out by the oven (where we set a five minute timer) swaying and sucking his fingers and making counting motions, and then when the timer sound goes off he FREAKS OUT. He jumps up and down in your arms or dances around, and then points wildly at the bottle with jabbing motions, just in case there is any chance that you'll forget about it.
Owen has turned everything into gymnastics. Jumping down from the minivan into a parking lot or garage? And opportunity to practice straddle jumps. Looking at someone's putt-putt golf set? It's a balance beam and a chance to practice a handstand. On the couch? Get upside down and get his feet up. The child has to move harder and faster every day than our space and pace allow, so we've even taken to letting him run on the treadmill. (And amazingly, once he's done so, he's much less likely to hurdle his baby brother or break James' glasses.)
This was the year of the strangely decorated tree. Our tree never looks picturesque--we make no effort at coordinating our ornaments, and even the tree shape itself is sometimes odd. (I always let the boys pick it out from the Agway at the bottom of bay on Empire Blvd.) Then, of course, James and Owen tend to cluster their ornaments together in places that they can reach conveniently as we decorate. This year, though, Felix was mobile. And that meant that each ornament that was within his reaching distance eventually made its way onto the floor or into his mouth, and then was retrieved and migrated to a much higher and safer spot somewhere near the top of the tree. By the second week of December the bottom two feet of the tree were bare and the top branches were completely packed with ornaments doubled and tripled up per space.
Owen is having toilet accidents regularly...because if he's doing anything even remotely interesting he waits until he is in a state of absolute can't-hold-it-any-longer crisis until he finally gets up to run to the bathroom. Unless it is naptime. When he's bored and stuck in his room, he needs to go to the bathroom about once every fifteen minutes. (Slamming the door to his room and the bathroom each time.)
James doesn't want me to look at him or smile at him or listen to him while he's singing in junior choir. And he doesn't want to see his junior choir director (who he admits he likes) in any context except for immediately after church while I am not there. I remember very strongly (and J says she does as well) being a kid and feeling like there were some things that I enjoyed doing and I knew my parents wanted me to do, but that I DID NOT want them to know I actually liked. I have no idea why he feels that way, but junior choir is apparently forbidden for any involvement from us.
Final shameless self-interested bit--if you've read this far you were probably at Smithmas at the Lake House and are directly related to me. We apparently came back without my favorite sweater. (Gray and black, J Crew, size S) If anyone happens to know where it is, I would love to have it back.
Last of all, the thing that I can't wait to forget--the stuffed animal dogs that all three boys found in their stocking that sing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."
