Worth a thousand words: Christmas Edition.

Merry Christmas

With this beautiful cover by Cloverton, we send our merriest Christmas wishes to you and yours.

May your holiday season by filled by the best things in life: 
faith and love, family and friends, 

peace and perspective, and a heart full of the magic of the season.

All our love to you and yours.

Before and after

 Over the last couple of months, Bug has grown increasingly worried that her hair would grow so long it would, as she puts it, "get all wet and poopy in the potty." (That's a little known subplot of Tangled, you know.) While we weren't quite to the point where that would be a legitimate concern, her hair had gotten super long, and to be honest, I was more than a little tired of the daily battle that wrangling that mane became. We jumped on Amazon and ordered the brush that Liv recommended, but we also decided that losing a little length couldn't hurt. I didn't want to take too much off the bottom, because, GET THIS-- it turns out Daddy is the most professional fatherly pony-tail doer there ever was, and I don't know how he managed to keep that little skill under wraps for the last 2 and a half years since she sprouted hair, but CAT'S OUT OF THE BAG NOW. No more hiding that talent under a bushel, dear.

My girl, with her long locks

So, we headed in to Cookie Cutters and told the girl behind the pink car-themed salon chair to whack off about 6 inches. Isn't she a doll?

Aaaand, vwalah!

Chatterbox

Hello, Buddy!

The other day, Daddy and I were juggling your wiggly little self in Sacrament meeting, and over the thrashing and flailing of your little blonde head, our eyes met. "Why did we ever teach this kid to talk?" Daddy mouthed, and I rolled my eyes. Once upon a time, I'm told, maybe you didn't talk much? Can it be true? It's hard for me to imagine because now, less than three short months since Early Intervention started coming to help you with your words, we can't get you to shut up. 

Should've known; you're my kid, after all.

It's downright amazing to see the change, little son. It's like one day you realized, huh, if I say "tootie" and they hear it, they understand me and hand me a cookie and BAM! That was the end of our quiet little dude. I doubt very much if I could list all the words you say on a regular basis now, but just by way of proving my point, you moved from saying, oh, maybe 3-8 words in early October to the following list: Mama, Daddy, Addy, doggy, teddy, wubby, ball, car, cookie, please, up high, bye bye, hello, hi, uh-oh, down, up, shoe, sock, hat, eye, nose, cheeks, cheese, please, thank you, no, light, wow, bubble, kick, ew, owie, poop (that one's a real crowd pleaser), airplane, throw, crash, in, on, Nana, Pop Pop, Mim, Aunt B, fishie, food, and your very favorite-- yep, yep, YEP! You make all kinds of animal and vehicle sounds, (is that a boy thing? vehicle sounds?) and you imitate us when we count to ten. Your most popular party trick, though, is your perfect and energetic referee arm signals when we call out 'touch down', 'first down', and 'incomplete'. 

You're daddy's kid, after all!

You are big and tumble-y and snuggle-y all at once, little man. You fill out our family with your squeals of delight and shouts of displeasure. You come running to me for a kiss for your owies, and toddle away again, grinning widely through the tears. 

You have a funny little habit of putting all kinds of things on your head and then holding very still, calling out "hat! HAT!" until someone notices your amazing feat of balance. Look at you, son! Maybe we should get you a unicycle and prepare you for halftime shows. 

By the time you read this, no one will probably remember references from Arrested Development, but I'm going to use one anyway. When we tell you no or take away some (usually breakable or sharp) object that you shouldn't have, you wheel around, drop your head and round your shoulders, and wander off dejectedly, just exactly like George Michael from the show. It looks like this:

and here's the secret: even though you're sad, it's freaking hilarious.

You are a treasure, my darling. We can't remember what life was life without you, except for this: I bet I did a lot less laundry. 

I love you, son, to the moon and back.

Mama

Please may

Like generations of parents before us, Paddy and I have been trying to wrangle some good manners into the duo of wild gorillas that live in our house. This pretty much consists of reliving the same basic situation (one small person steals toy/book/off-limits Christmas ornament from other small person; wailing ensues) over and over again and responding by repeating the same basic disciplinary/educational shtick over and over again, all the while hoping that something we are saying is tattooing itself into the moral code of at least one of the two culprits so we don't end up with a double dose of teenage delinquents, or, worse, one of those whiny kids who tattle-tells all the time.

It turns out that all this molding and shaping of young behavior results in some pretty great moments. For example, the time Bug responded to one of my exasperated recitals of "Kindness Begins with Me" by dropping her eyebrows into a low scowl and snappily correcting me: "No, Mama. Kindness begins with HEAVENLY FATHER."

You got me.

We've also been stressing the importance of using polite language, particularly when asking for things. In that funny way that little minds warp things, Bug has interpreted this to mean that any inclusion of the phrase "please may" is considered polite, regardless of the questionable grammatical structure of the sentence. This means that around our house, we get plenty of requests like, "Mama, will you get me some chocolate milk please may?" or "Please may can we go to Nana's now?"

The first person who corrects her will a swift punch in the kidneys.

Mister Baggins is pretty new to the whole disciplinary arena, but his deep joy at throwing food off of his high chair tray has landed him in his first few rounds of timeout. I'll tell you what, when that kid is finished eating, he is quite emphatic about it.

All this to say, raising these kids is a joy. A challenge, for sure, but a joy. And I don't know why I've felt so stuck without funny things to blog about them.

Playing Row, Row, Row Your Boat together.