stinker

As much as I like to dangle shiny little incentives (literally or figuratively) in front of my son to get the best out of him, I've learned many times over that Malcolm can't be bought.

He is too smart for that ...  And here's a little story to prove it ...

While spending the night at my parents' house, my Mom told Malcolm that if he peed on the big boy potty (Ah, yes!  Potty training is in full, if not slightly leisurely, effect over here!) she'd give him a new truck, but if he pooped on the big boy potty, she'd give him a big new truck.

Apparently, he thought on this for a moment as he played, then suddenly asked my Dad: "Grampa (although he says it more like "Ka-pa")? I poop on potty, I get big truck?"

When my Dad agreed that that was, indeed, the deal, Malcolm removed himself from the room, went to his potty (with some help from my mother), and proceeded to poop the tiniest of barely-there poops on it ...  And then he waited for his big truck!

You'd think my entire family (and anyone else that spends a moderate of time with Malcolm) would know by now, that you really do have to watch what you say to him. 

He doesn't forget.

Ever.

And he holds you to your promises.

But, luckily (for us!), he is also easy-going ...

So, he accepted the new, little truck without protest.

(Photo courtesy of my Dad's iPhone)

Maybe, next time, my parents will be more specific in describing their expectations.

better with age

Rumor has it, I celebrated by thirtieth birthday last week.

The big 3-0.

(Luckily, my special day was a bit less eventful than last year!)

I have been told by many people that this upcoming decade of my life will be the best ...  But, if I think back on them, my twenties were pretty darn good.

I graduated from college.

I (jointly) bought a house.

I got married to the love of my life.

I took some pretty awesome trips (to Colorado, and Mexico, and Florida, most recently, Jamaica).

I birthed my first child ...

And then my second.

I earned my Master's degree.

There are lots of wonderful memories all wrapped up into ten years!

Of course, there were the not-so-great moments, too ...  But, overall, I certainly can't complain about my twenties!

My thirties have some big shoes to fill!

super

It's hard to tell in these photos, but Pearl was rocking her superhero gear the other day ...  Which is totally appropriate because "super" has been a good way to describe her.

Onesie: Old Navy (thrifted for $1.00)

Pants: Carter's (thrifted for $0.50)

She's super observant ...  Watching our every move, and soaking up everything around her. 

She's super active ...  Rolling from one end of the room to the other, tucking her knees up beneath her and pushing up on them, preparing to fly away during tummy time ...

She's super sweet ...  Really, the best little personality around.  She's got tons of spunk and spice, but she's completely laid back and ready to just go-with-the-flow.

She's the perfect fourth member of our family, and I can't imagine my life without her.

Our little Supergirl.

that kid

Malcolm will turn three in a couple of weeks, so I thought it was time to get him out of the house and involved in some "pre-school" activities. 

I by no means expect him to sit down and pay attention for long spans of time, but I figured the interaction with other (non-family) kids his own age and (non-family) adults in charge could be beneficial ...  So, when I saw a $20 Groupon a couple months ago for a local Performing Arts Studio touting a month's worth of little kid gymnastics classes, I jumped on it.

Fast forward to this past Monday and Malcolm's first class.

Let's just say it went pretty much as expected ...

Not well.

For starters, Malcolm and I arrived fashionably early.  While I tried to fill out the emergency contact (and other) forms, he ran around the main area of the center like a wild man.  He jumped down stairs, chased little girls (decked out in their leotards), and rolled around the floor.  He was ready. 

And we still had about fifteen minutes to wait.

Then, when we got to the gym room, his little eyes quickly darted to the colorful wedges and mats ...  And balance beam.  He wanted to explore!  And climb!  RIGHT NOW!

But, alas, we still had to wait.

Finally, the big moment ...  The teachers called all of the children to the center of the room and asked them to form a circle.  Malcolm ventured to the edge of the huge, blue mat, then ran right back to me, tears streaming down his face.

He didn't want to join the kids.

He didn't want to sit.

I let him crab over by me (in the parents' holding area) for a while, and ever so slowly, he started to inch back out toward the group.  They were all acting like fish now ...  "Swimming" around the room and doing a bunch of silly movements ...  Yet it still wasn't meant to be.

Again, he came, crying, to my side and watched from a safe distance.

About twenty minutes into the fifty minute class, when the colorful parachute made it out on to the floor, his interest was piqued again ...  And, this time, he ran out with the group and jumped around on the periphery.

And that's pretty much how he spent the rest of his time ...  Bouncing (rolling, jumping, kicking, spinning, climbing) around on the periphery. 

Even when the other kids were broken off into small groups to try the different pieces of gymnastics equipment, he did his own thing, moving from group to group (as they had specifically been told not to do) and basically causing all kinds of mischief.

He was that kid.

The one that is all over the place.

The one that is having an absolute blast (but that isn't listening).

The one that needs someone to bring him back to earth.

The one that the other parents are probably talking about.

And, you know what?

That's okay.

He is still only two, after all ... 

And while he may be taller than most of the other kids, he is probably younger than them, too.

He isn't quite ready for this whole "pre-school" thing.

I definitely see that now.

So, we'll finish out our month of classes (I wonder what next Monday will bring?!) and then we'll take a break.

And maybe try again in a few months ...

getting a lift

Hikes in the Cleveland Metroparks are easy when Dad is around ...

(At least for the five minutes he agrees to carry you!)