It’s 1 PM, and I’m insisting that the three year old get dressed. He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, and doing his best to irritate me because he thinks it’s funny.

I’m not biting.

“Which pants do you want? Blue? Tan? Army?”

“Blue pants?” he asks with a confused tone. “What blue pants?”

He gets up to investigate. I point to two different pairs of blue pants.

“Oh. Those are navy,” he says.

Well. Excuse me.

The kids all like Kenny Chesney’s music. I do too. We all sometimes need some music that doesn’t require thought. But I can see why some people restrict their children’s music diet to Bach, Mozart, Strauss, and all that. If your three year old is going to be singing at the grocery store checkout line, wouldn’t Handel’s Messiah be nice? It would be perhaps a little less embarrassing than:

Sit right here and have another beer in Mexico…

I was sitting at the dining room table, sewing.

whirr whirr whirr

Peter was sitting at the dining room table, singing.

the icky bicky spider

I paid him no mind until he said, “Mommy, can I wash my hands?”

I looked up and realized he had been playing with the syrup on his breakfast plate.

squish squish squish

Both hands were covered, dripping.

I took him to the sink, and he continued singing.

the icky bicky spider

“Itsy bitsy spider,” said I.

“Icky bicky,” insisted he.

“No, itsy bitsy meaning tiny, not icky bicky meaning cover-your-hands-in-syrup,” I chided.

“But I can’t say itsy bitsy,” he said.

“Why not?” I queried.

“I free {three}. I can’t say itsy bitsy,” he said clearly enunciating every word.

“Mommy, you wanna play restoran?”

“Sure, Peter. Do you have a menu? What’s on the menu?” He scans his hands.

“Um…lessee…chicken…fries…soda…”

“Mmmm…how about soup? Do you have any soup?”

“Yes, soup…and rice!”

“Oh! I would like some soup and rice, please.”

“Okay, Mommy,” says my little waiter. He turns to go get my order.

“Oh, Peter, do you have any water? I would like some water, too, please.”

He agrees and starts to go, but stops and turns back. “But I don’t know how to make water.”

“Mommy, I don’t want to go to church,” said the 3 year old.

“Well, honey, that’s where we’re going,” I replied in my isn’t-this great!-voice.

“I’m too noisy,” he promised.

I consider that premeditation.

Actually, he wasn’t noisy. He just lay down in the aisle. And took off his shoes and socks.

I was nursing the baby (gasp!), happy that I insisted on sitting in the back pew, and grateful for indulgent elderly parishioners.

We have sugar ants having a grand time in my kitchen. Bill asked at the pharmacy for boric acid, but they were out. Odd.

I really can’t stand the ants, but Petey loves them.

“They’re my friends,” he says. “See, they’re friendly!” Not only does he enjoy letting them crawl up his arm, he’s actually lain down on the floor in the middle of the swarm.

Does that make you queasy? Trust me, it is much much worse to actually witness it than to simply read about it.

Pete went with me to the grocery store, and I picked up some of those Raid ant baits. He wanted to know what they were. How could I tell them they were poison? I lied. Yes, I lied, and I don’t feel bad about it at all. I said it was ant food.

He saw the box earlier today and expressed a desire to feed his little friends. I told him to wait until Daddy came home. When Bill got back from his errand (he’s off today), Peter remembered right away.

So, Peter helped Daddy kill feed the ants.

I really hope he doesn’t remember this when he’s older.