Scenes from a Starbucks

"It's too bad you're a girl," Little Dog said after we'd placed our order at the counter.
"Really?  Why's that.  I'm pretty happy being a girl," I replied.
"Well, because you're not lucky enough to be a boy.  Boys can do everything.  Girls can't.  Too bad you don't get to be a boy."
From his tone, I could tell he wasn't really feeling sorry for me, he was trying to lord his supposed gender superiority over me.  I'm not sure where he gets this from, but I find it obnoxious if not entirely age appropriate.
"Girls can do pretty much everything boys can do, you know," I reminded him. "In fact, we can do some things boys can never do!"
"No you can't!" he protested, then overcome by curiosity he just had to ask, "Like what?"
"I can make a baby.  In fact, I made you!" I said, "Boys can't do that."
"Nope, she's right," the man behind the counter agree, grinning at this whole exchange.
Little Dog looked up at me, eyes wide.  Then he collapsed.  His back against the espresso counter, he slid down to a seated position as he howled, "Don't mock me." Then his eyes filled with tears and he cried, big fat very real tears.  And I felt terrible despite having only told him the truth.
"Sweetie, come on now.  You're amazing," he silently let me move him away from the counter where I could try again to cheer him.
"You know," I said "Girls aren't better than boys because we can do special things.  Boys and girls each bring something special to the party.  There are things boys can do that girls can't."
"Really?" he asked, his voice brightening only slightly.
"Yes.  I promise."
"Like what?" he asked.
"Well, boys can pee standing up.  Girls can't do that." I offered, thinking this might strike the right tone for this little boy.
"Really?" he said, his cloud immediately lifting.
"Yep.  I mean, we could, but we'd mostly end up peeing all over our feet.  No aim."
"But it's so easy!" he said, eyes clear and sparkling again, that smugness of his earlier line of talk returning.  And then, as if on cue, "It's so sad you're not a boy.  Boys can do everything!"

What passes for romance these days

Tonight I had my Pilates class and made it home a few minutes before Mr. Dog walked in with the boys.  As we all took off our shoes and coats we kind of gathered up in the entryway.  Big Dog, free of his shoes, bolted upstairs to play and Little Dog was still working on his freeing his feet from his sneakers.  As Mr. Dog brushed past me in the narrow space, I said, "What's up, yo?" because, yes, I'm street like that.  And he replied, "What up with you, you?"
His voice thick with distaste, Little Dog piped in, "Why do you guys have to always be so lovey-dovey?" and took off up the stairs, leaving us laughing in his wake.
"Really?  That's lovey-dovey now?" I asked Mr. Dog.
And as soon as it was out of my mouth, our small critic's voice drifted down from the stairwell, "Ug. You disgust me." And he stomped away.
I didn't realize that my faux urban posturing could be mistaken as the language of love.  I guess you really do learn something new every day.

Hitting the showers

Last night I had decided the boys needed to bathe.  Unfortunately on the way home from our sushi dinner, the battle in the backseat got so annoying I didn't feel comfortable letting them share the tub.  I feared that if they continued to harass each other with the same ferocity I witnessed in the car, I'd be called in every 2 minutes to referee and there goes my quiet wine drinking time.  So I suggested they bathe separately.  Better yet, I suggested they try showering.

They were suspicious at first, they'd never showered at home and I guess the showers at the swimming pool didn't quite register as bathing in their minds.  After a moment of discussion, Little Dog agreed.
"So, you guys are going to take a shower instead of a bath," I said more than asked.
"That'll be manly!" replied Little Dog.
"Really?  Manly?" I asked. 
"Yes, showers are manly," he agreed. "I'm going to be a manly man."
"Um, ok," I said, "You know I take showers too, right?"
"Baths are girly."

I'm not quite sure where he gets this stuff, but it comes in such a constant stream it's hard not to quote him.

Consider my mind blown

Some background is probably necessary for this to make any sense, so here we go.  Over the Memorial Day weekend we went to San Francisco to see the preview of the new Tales of the City musical at ACT with our dear friends.  Well the grown ups went to see it, the kids were left at home with an amazing and very brave sitter who took on all four children at once! The weekend was a nostalgic escape from our daily lives and a time to commune with our friends as a group who don't usually get to be all in one place at one time.  It would have been near perfect but the last day, just hours before we had to pack up and head home, we got a call from our pet sitter.

NE had agreed to house sit and watch the dogs, fish and chickens while we were away.  She had agreed to sit, but expressed some anxiety over dealing with the chickens.  They freaked her out a bit.  I assured her they were low maintenance, just opening and shutting the run at the right times of day and night, everything else would be set up and good for the weekend. In doing this I may have cursed myself because the experience ended up being the kind of thing that can traumatize you.  She had to inform us that one of the chickens had died.  And it couldn't just die in the yard, oh no, it died in the hen house with her legs sticking out of the door blocking the ramp the chickens use to enter and exit their little home.  And it just happened to be the biggest hen.  And she just happened to die, trapping another chicken in the house.  And NE had to deal with it.  She had to maneuver the dead chicken out of the way and pull her out of the house.  She dealt with it like a pro, but she was shaken.  She felt responsible, though she did absolutely nothing wrong. As much as I tried to calm her, I very much doubt she'll ever house sit for us again.

Anyhow, after the dust settled the fact was that we were down one hen.  I wanted to add another to the flock.  When I started to look at this, I found it is generally recommended to add at least two chickens to a flock at a time.  So I did.  I got two 4 month old pullets who would start laying in a month or so and did the work to integrate them into the flock.

Fast forward about a month.  The new girls, Ms. Fluffypants and Wishbone, have become a part of the flock and are staring to lay.  Like other pullets, they start by laying these adorable little pullet eggs.  They're about half the size of a normal egg, perfectly formed and just plain cute.  Now I already obsess over the chickens with a level of fascination that Mr. Dog finds incomprehensible.  I delight in collecting the eggs each day the way a child might delight in looking under the tree on Christmas.  I gleefully report the egg count almost every day to Mr. Dog who more or less rolls his eyes at my unbridled enthusiasm for our poultry.  So just imagine how giddy I was when the new girls' first tiny egg appeared.

I rushed in to show Mr. Dog who may have mumbled "nice" or something equally unsatisfying.  So I decided to ratchet things up with my announcements.  Each time they produced an egg, I'd bring it in and build it up.  My favorite, and the one that has stuck, is to promise to show him something that will "blow his mind"  after I repeat this several times I hold up the egg and say "Pullet egg!"  Then I make a little hand to head gesture designed to compliment my next recitation of, "Did it blow you mind?"
And now I do this a lot.  I personally find it hilarious even if no on else does.
The other evening, we got two pullet eggs in one day.  After explaining this to Mr. Dog and the boys and doing all of the "blow your mind" nonsense, I did the "Did it blow your mind?" closer complete with hand gesture.
Little Dog, in a completely flat voice answers, "No.  You know what would blow my mind?  Some water."  And he turns my own little joke against me to ask for a glass of water.  He is a future master.

Fame and fortune

Little Dog had a fortune cookie today.  When I picked him up from camp this afternoon he was excited to tell me about it.
"My fortune said I'm going to find fame!" he says happily.
"Really, that's awesome.  Do you know what that means?"
"Yeah!  I'm going to be rich and famous!"
"That's awesome.  Will you buy me a house?  Or a car?  Or some fancy pants?" I ask.
"It's not going to be until I'm a grown up."
"That's ok, I'll wait.  It'll be cool when you're famous," I say.
"Yep, and there will be hot ladies there."
Um, what? "Great.  Hot ladies, you say?"
"Yep, lots of them.  And I'll buy you some fancy pants.  And a new car.  And I'll build you a house."
"That's great.  Thanks!" then I think a moment, "Wait, are you going to want to bring all of these hot ladies to my house?"
"Maybe.  Why?" he asks.
"Because that'll be a lot of extra cooking," I say.
"Do you want lots of hot ladies at your house?" he asks.
"I don't know.  Maybe just one or two."
"Ok, I'll just bring one or maybe two.  Just the best ones," he assures me.
Well I'm glad we got that cleared up.

Well I'm not eating THAT for dinner

In Big Dog's after school program they bribe the kids into their best behavior.  I'm not opposed to it, with that many kids I think you use whatever tactics work.  Hell, with two kids I resort to bribery more than I care to admit.  But that's not what this post is about.  At any rate, in the after school program, kids who behave are rewarded with "Club Bucks" (also known as buttons) and at the end of the week they can buy prizes from the Club Store.  One week when I picked Big Dog up he was clutching his newest prize.  He held it out for me to see, excited about the green tube. 
"Oh!  It's a water weenie!" I exclaimed, reminded of toys from my youth.
"Mama!  That's so inappropriate!" I was immediately scolded.
"No, really, that's what we called them!" I tried. Turns out that's not what they call them now.  In our more modern world, they're called water snakes (which just sounds like a euphemism if you ask me).  But Big Dog was having none of my explanation.  I even got the Director of the after school program over to back me up on this.  Which thankfully he did or Big Dog would continue to think I'm even more twisted than I actually am.

Fast forward a couple of months.  Last night for dinner I served homemade maple baked beans with chicken sausages (at least for the boys, I passed on the sausage being a vegetarian and all).  Kind of a modern, slightly upscale version of beenie weenies from when I was a kid.  As I was serving up the plates I decided to shock and horrify Big Dog all over again.
"When I was a kid we had a special name for hot dogs and baked beans served together," I said. "Can you guess what we called them?"
He thought for a moment, looked me right in the eye and said, "Penises?"
Um no.  But that shut me right up.  And anything I could say after that kind of lost its impact.

Out of the mouth of Little Dog

It seems like lately I've been focusing on Little Dog's antics for the blog content.  I promise at some point I'll manage to throw myself back into my writing and put up some more in depth, better composed material.  For now, you'll just have to bask in the things that Little Dog comes up with.

In the back seat of the car...
"I know why they call it a penis." Pause for dramatic effect.  "Because the peepee comes out of it.  Get it PEE-nis."

Leaving the pediatrician's office...
As we're leaving he sees a baby, probably about 10months old crawling toward the toys in the play area.  "Awwww, what a cute little baby!" and he pauses to watch, the baby pulls himself up to standing. "Look, the baby is standing up," I comment. 
"Yeah, he must have gone to baby school!"

Compassionate

The other day when I was driving Big Dog to school, he asked me a question. For whatever reason he'd asked "How old are you mommy?" Since it didn't make sense in the discussion we were having I was  not sure I'd heard him correctly, so I said "What?"
Without missing a beat, he asked again, with a slight modification, "How young are you mommy?"
What a sweet kid.

Upping the antics

Little Dog is in a particularly funny stage right now.  For this reason, I'm taking down a few of my favorite recent Little Dog utterances.

Tonight, after dinner I baked a batch of cookies.  I keep the dough in the fridge and only bake up a few at a time. This helps with portion control and more than that, everyone knows hot, fresh from the oven cookies are way better than baked a couple days ago cookies (or the stomach ache a delicious cookie binge can cause).  After he polished off his cookie, Little Dog sidles over to me and says, "Anymore cookies?"
"Nope, no more.  You had one and that's enough for a boy your size," I say.
"I'm sorry to say this, but I just discovered something about you," he says with disapproval in his tone. "You're the meanest mom ever."
Mr. Dog steps in immediately, "Wow, I guess she won't be making you any more cookies again."
As soon as Little Dog realized this might be true, he had to make amends, "Don't you know I was just kidding?" and because I didn't immediately respond he said it again...and again.
Big Dog took the opportunity to step in, "Mama, I'll bet you can't read my lips?"  And proceeds to mouth, "You're the best mom EVER!"  Thanks kid!

Little Dog is in a phase that involves putting his hand in his pants.  Or maybe he's just male.  Either way, he does it a lot.  The other day I saw him with his hand down the back of his pants and told him he needed to take his hands out of his pants and go wash his hands.  I figure this is a good practice.  He figures I'm gullible.
"Mama, I didn't have my hand in my pants?" he says.
"Yes you did.  I saw you. Go wash your hands."
"That wasn't me," he says, looking me right in the eyes.
"Really?  Funny because it looked just like you," I say wondering what his next move would be.
"It wasn't me, it was a hologram!"  And here I was, not even aware that he knew what a hologram was.

At soccer class on Saturday the coach had Little Dog's class playing games to practice their shooting.  One game was called "Asteroid."  The premise is that the coach's soccer ball is an asteroid that will smash into a planet if it is not stopped before it reaches the opposite end of the practice field.  Each child has a soccer ball that they can use to kick at the coach's ball.  If it connects with the ball, tragedy is averted, the planet survives!  After explaining the rules, the coach says the first planet at risk is Pluto.  Immediately Little Dog speaks up.  "Pluto is NOT a planet.  It's a DWARF planet," he says loudly and sternly.  The coach looked a little shaken by the news.  Or maybe that a 5 year old just schooled him.  Either way, it was amusing.

Indefinable, indefensable...same difference

Portland can be a cold and rainy place, but even when we visit grandma and grandpa we need to make sure we get the boys out to run off some of their energy.  Indoor play spaces can be a life saver.  As the boys climbed the tube slides and ladders, Little Dog found a cute little girl to play with while his brother focused on the video games.
After a few trips up and down the slide with this girl an even younger boy started to follow and to some extent bother Little Dog.  When he came out of the slide, the littler boy was right behind him, kicking him.  The next trip down, Little Dog came right over to me to complain.
"I don't like that boy.  He's kicking me," he said expecting me to take action.
"Well, let him go down the slide before you," I offered.
He thought about this then offered another bit of information.  "He's a little boy who says 'fuck.'" Little Dog said this seriously but not provocatively, as though this shocking tidbit was just another observation about the child's behavior
"Hey, we don't use that word!" I reminded him, hoping he wouldn't call me on that half truth. The me half of we does say it when I slip up, but the him half sure doesn't.
"It is a very bad word and I don't ever want to hear you say it, no matter what this little boy says or doesn't say," I said in my best stern mommy voice.  I don't use this voice often so his eyes got wide and he nodded solemnly in agreement.
"Now why don't you go play with your little friend.  Maybe just steer clear of that little boy," I suggested trying to get him off and going on something new.
And I thought that was the end of that.  Or at least I did until Little Dog started talking to his new friend he'd been playing with.  As they walked back toward the slide, Little Dog looked at her, shaking his head slightly and said with genuine bewilderment in his voice, "I don't even know what 'fuck' means!"

Long night

Sleeping can be hard at grandma and grandpa's house.  It's exciting.  There are lots of different toys to play with and grandma and grandpa are fun and thrive on making little boys very happy.  Why on earth would anyone willingly go to bed when they might just miss out on something new and fantastic?  And Little Dog believes this to the fullest and getting him to even get into bed can be a taxing experience for a mother trying to get at least a few hours of sleep before the next day of noisy play and fighting begins.

I finally wrestled him into bed and I snuggled up next to him.  Unfortunately this wasn't enough, my little boy continued to thrash and roll.  He's strong and a his thrashing has resulted in a headbutt to my nose on more than one occasion.  I try to stay calm and speak in a soothing voice.  "You need to go to sleep.  You need to get rest so we can have more fun tomorrow.  Please go to sleep," I say almost pleading, ok actually pleading with him.
"Mama," he says using a similarly soothing voice.  "I'm not tired.  I don't want to sleep."
"You are, just close your eyes and get some rest."
"But mama, I'm nocturnal."
Freakin' fantastic.

Friendly nature

Little Dog has been having an easier time at school lately.  I'm not entirely sure what helped him turn the corner and begin enjoying his day, but I'm certainly not going to question it too much.
Today when I picked him up I asked what he did today. 
"I played with Ryan," he said with a giant grin.  Lately he's been playing with Ryan a lot.
"Is he fun to play with?" I asked, knowing the answer in advance.
"Yes," says Little Dog very seriously.  "And very satisfying."
Amused by his choice of words, I couldn't help but repeat it. "Satisfying?  Ok."
Little Dog was quiet for a long pause.  Then he asks, "What does satisfying mean?"
This kid cracks me up.

The future

Living in a house under remodel is like living in a world of endless possibility.  Unfortunately it is also a lot like living in a world of infinite frustration.  As we seem to approach the end of one task, something unexpectedly breaks and another task is added to the list.  For example, we may be nearing completion on the foundation walls, but in removing the cribbing, the house seems to have shifted just enough to cause a leak in a pipe in the upstairs bathroom.  Sadly, this pipe is housed inside a wall.  To get to it will take a significant effort, so instead of fixing it, we simply close the bathroom for use.  If you don't live in a 100+ year old house, this sounds insane.  And it may be, but it comes down to choices.  We fix things in some kind of logical order. The foundation simply has higher priority since there is another functional bathroom downstairs.

Occasionally as I think about the state of the house, I imagine how the boys most likely think this is normal.  They must expect that everyone is similarly dealing with holes in the plaster of their walls and light fixtures left hanging from wires for years on end.  I hope they don't resent it. And I hope they don't expect it will be over too soon.

Lately Big Dog has been talking about painting our house.  The neighbors painted their house about a year ago. It went from a basic cream color to a deep blue.  It is lovely.  We've mentioned that our house will be painted at some point, and occasionally when we pass a house with a nice paint job I'll ask his opinion of the colors.  Last time I did this, he wasn't impressed.  The color was boring.  Another blue house with white trim.  I guess if you're an almost 7 year old, that's dull stuff.  His suggestion?
"Mom, when we paint the house we should paint it gold!" he offered.
"Yellow?  That might be nice."
"No, gold.  And maybe silver too."
I told him he'd need to talk that one over with his dad.  I wasn't going to even touch it.

Areas of expertise

The pillow pets have invaded our house.  And when I say invaded I mean to say that I caved and bought the boys pillow pets after having been asked for one each time we saw the display at Fred Meyer.  It's not that I weak.  Ok, it's only partly that I weak.  It's also that it was so much easier to say yes to a toy that encourages snuggling and sleeping than it is to  the myriad guns or shooters they usually go gaga over.  So I did it.  I bought fuzzy pillows done up as animals.  Insects to be exact.  Big Dog chose the lady bug and Little Dog chose the bee.  And they've been sleeping cuddled up with them every night since. 
Tonight will be no different.  Though since Little Dog was home sick today from school his pillow pet, named "Puddles" was left upstairs when the boys went downstairs for stories and bed.  Not long after they left, their friend's absence was noted and both boys came stomping up the stairs again to retrieve him.
"Where are you Puddles?" called Little Dog in his sing-song voice he reserves for his stuffed animals and for sweet talking me into letting him have one more cookie.
"Come on out Puddles!  I want to smack your stinky bug butt!" added Big Dog.
"Oh no you don't!" said Little Dog, "You do and I'll sting you!"
"But you don't even have a stinger.  See?" said Big Dog, holding up the fuzzy bee pillow that had been found behind the chair.
"Yes I do.  Here it is.  It's the tag.  I'm gonna sting you!"
"You know bees die when they sting someone," says Big Dog smugly, recounting this fact gleaned from his 1,000 viewings of Bee Movie.
"No they don't!" said Little Dog, full of defiance.
"Yes they do!  Ask Mama," said Big Dog.
"Yep," I agreed. "They do."
"I didn't know that!" said Little Dog, sounding genuinely surprised despite having also viewed Bee Movie more than any child should be allowed to be exposed to Jerry Seinfeld.
He paused a moment, then decided I was wrong.  "You're lying, Mama."
"No, I'm not," I defended.
"We can ask Papa," said Big Dog, offering up parental corroboration.
"Ok!" agreed Little Dog, excited to prove his brother wrong.
"Yeah, he knows all about dead animals!" said Big Dog, and they headed off downstairs.  I'm really not sure why they think dead animals are one of his areas of knowledge, but who am I to argue.

Livin' the Hi Life

I love the Hi Life in Ballard.  It is one of the two favorite restaurants when our family eats out as a whole.  They serve fresh local food with a menu that updates about every three months with seasonal foods or regional cuisine as an inspiration.  They make great cocktails too.  Their servers are friendly, helpful but not overly clingy and they are exceptional with the needs of people dining out with a family.  They are nice to the kids, don't fuss about a little extra table mess, load you up with napkins, and get the food on the table quickly.  If you eat out with kids, you know how important these things can be. They've recently revamped the kid menu too so it includes some smaller servings of less typical kid foods.  I imagine they're also delicious since they have tasty food over all. Given that our children know the Hi Life as "the mac and cheese place" due to their addiction to the creamy homemade macaroni and cheese, we have not yet strayed from their favorite menu item.  (No, this is not a restaurant review and I have not received any compensation, not even in the form of an extra delicious cocktail to write about their establishment, but I thought I should set the scene for this next little story.)

One of the more recent innovations in their kid-friendliness was the addition of a "decorate your own cookie" dessert to the menu.  The genius of this is that they have devised an egg-free dough that is delivered to your table while you wait for your food.  This is accompanied by a small serving of mini chocolate chips, one of sprinkles and one of red hots.  So, while you get to sip a cocktail and chat with your spouse, the kids are happily occupied with the creation of their dessert.  When they are done, just about the time the food arrives at the table, the server delivers the decorated cookie to the kitchen to be baked.  It is then delivered fresh from the oven when it's time for dessert.  Fantastic.

On the way to dinner, the boys started asking if they would be allowed to order the cookie.  Once they were told yes, they voiced a secret desire.  They wanted to eat the dough.   Raw.   Fine with us, it won't hurt them, they just need to understand there will be no other dessert.
At the table, Mr. Dog and I were happily chatting and sipping our drinks, when Mr. Dog looked at Little Dog's cookie that was being decorated as a smiley face with the chocolate chips making the eyes nose and giant grin.
"What's that?" he asked, looking at the brown flecks on the "cheeks" of the cookie that were neither chocolate chips nor sprinkles.
"Chicken Pox," answered Little Dog.
"I think they're chocolate chip rubble," I answered.
"Chicken pox," says Little Dog again, not even looking up from his work.
"Well, that does make sense," said Mr. Dog, suppressing a chuckle.
"Yes," says Little Dog, still focused on the cookie decorating. "Now I'm going to eat the patient."
I sure hope he doesn't go into medicine.

If you work at the Hi Life and happened to come across this, the crazy table with the two little boys says "Thanks!"

Freedom of choice

Little Dog was deciding who had to take him to the downstairs bathroom since the upstairs bathroom is currently out of commission. 
"Eeenie, meenie, minee, mo!" he said, pointing to a place between me and Mr. Dog.
"Who was that, mom or me?" asked Mr. Dog.
"You!  You're mo!"
"Really?  I'm mo?" says Mr. Dog.
"Yep.  I totally moed you."
And off they went.

Overheard: Little Dog special edition

At lunch after our visit to the Children's Museum, Little Dog is eating his cheeseburger.  More specifically he is chowing through a pile of dill pickle chips that are on the plate next to his hamburger.  "I think you really like pickles," teases Mr. Dog.
"No," says Little Dog firmly. "I'm just eating them to get them out of the way."

At dinner with Aunt Kathleen's boyfriend Allen, Little Dog says "What's your name again?" (He has his father's knack for remembering names alright.  Kathleen has been living with Allen for the past 3.5 years, he's met him many times.) "My name is Allen," says an amused Allen.
"I love you, Allen," he says.
"Thanks, Little Dog, I love you too!"
"But, I hate my butt," he quickly adds.
Interesting side note, it took Kathleen and Allen quite a while to figure out how long they've lived together.  Apparently they have memory issues as well.
 
After washing his hands in the bathroom with Aunt Kathleen, Little Dog finishes and heads out.  On his way, he switches off the light.  "Hey, I'm still in here," says Aunt Kathleen.
"I'm going green," he says and heads off leaving her in the dark.

Plausible Deniability

Little Dog has recently become quite accident prone. Well, he has if you're willing to take him at his word. It seems that he discovered that some things, even painful or messy things, are easily forgiven if they are accidental. A glass of milk spilled on the table, even if it take a while to clean up and ruins things around it, is easily forgiven if it wasn't intentional. A misplaced elbow that causes a bloody nose is not a punishable offense if you really weren't trying to hurt anyone as you danced in the living room. It's like a light went on for him. Now he's using this knowledge to his advantage.

"Mom, Little Dog bit me!" screams Big Dog.
"It was an accident!" says Little Dog, voice dripping with false sincerity.

"Mom, Little Dog threw that at me!"
"It was an accident!"

"Mom, Little Dog tore up my paper airplane!"
"It was an accident!"

We've tried to explain the difference between deliberate and accidental injuries and wrongs and stressed the importance of honesty, but he remains intentionally obtuse on the topic. And the accidents keep coming. I hope this is just a phase, otherwise I guess I should just begin preparing for his career in politics.

Big Dog, on the other hand, is a little more creative about his attempts to elude punishments.
(For this story to make sense, I'm going to have to give him a name. And honestly, I'm just not comfortable putting his real name on the blog given the wealth of other information I post about him here. I owe him at least a tiny bit of internet anonymity at his tender age. Fear not we can still make this work. Big Dog is named after a famous person, a long dead famous person. He knows this and we talk about the person he is named for on a pretty regular basis. In fact, he thinks it is pretty cool to have this name with the history attached. So let's pretend for a moment his name is "Harry" after Harry Houdini. It isn't, but it works for the sake of this story.)

While we were in Colorado, the boys continued their fine tradition of beating the tar out of each other every time they were sitting in the car. To be honest, it extends well beyond the car, but the car is where this particular incident took place.
Smack!
"Stop it!" says Little Dog, freshly hit by his brother for some unknown reason.
"What happened?" I ask from the front seat, blind to the incidents unfolding in the back seat.
"He hit me!" says Little Dog.
"Who hit you?" ask Big Dog.
"Harry did it."
"Harry? Which Harry?" asks Big Dog, "Do you mean me, or Harry Houdini?" And I honestly think he believed this little stunt might work. That thought was crushed when Mr. Dog and I both started laughing.

Overheard while on vacation

Little Dog, after sniffing my arm: "Mama, why do you smell like sun scream?"

Mr Dog took pride in showing off the wheat that still grows along the road near his childhood home.
"This is wheat. Wheat is used to make flour, which makes bread and cookies and cakes. See, it still grows here from when this was a wheat field before Grandma and Grandpa built the house here."
Big Dog replies, "How nice for them."
Mr. Dog is still uncertain if he was honestly pleased or just being subtle with his sarcasm.

Little Dog, helping Mr. Dog close the windows in their bedroom, "Good thing this window has a scream on it." (Ok, that's two with the screen-scream error, but it's really freakin' cute!)

While driving to the Colorado Railroad Museum as I was enjoying the scenery, Big Dog exclaims, "I like Colorado!"
"Yeah? What do you like?" I ask, expecting to hear about the horses, the mountains or the bunnies that seem to be everywhere.
"They speak English here!"

The afterlife

Big Dog is given to melodrama so I wasn't surprised when he said, "I'm thirsty! If you don't give me something to drink I'll die!"
"You'll die?" I asked.
"Yes, I'll die. And then I'll be a zombie."
"A zombie, really?"
"And when I die after being a zombie, I'll be a ghost. And when I die from being a ghost I'll just die," he continued.
"Well ghosts are already dead so that seems like you're overdoing things."
"But I'm thirsty! And I'll die."
Little Dog decided to get in on the demands for liquids, "I'll die and be a zombie. Then I'll die and be a ghost. Then I'll die and be a vampire. And then I'll stay a vampire."
Maybe he's been watching a bit too much Scooby Doo.