This morning, Max came out of his room just PISSED off at the world. He said, "You guys put me to bed without SOCKS ON!" It was true. His mother had put him in bed without proper footwear. I asked him "Oh buddy, are your feet cold?" To which he responded, "Yeah my feet are cold... you put me to bed without SOCKS ON!" It was as though he was saying "Well, no shit my feet are cold, jerk. Wouldn't yours be cold if you didn't wear socks?"
A couple days prior to that, completely out of the blue, Max started to chant while going to the bathroom. "Don't say dammit. Don't say dammit. Don't say dammit" as if he anticipated peeing on the seat and was carefully planning his choice of expletive were it to occur. And he was saying it in a weird, soft, throaty way. Being a father, I can only describe it as follows: Like a monster would say it. Shanna knows what I'm saying. Apparently, he doesn't simply recounts the times a cuss word slips from my mouth, but instead recites the odd, throaty scolding I get from Shanna afterwards.
My new technique for potty training Max is to heap ridiculous amounts of praise on him when he does something right, and not make a big deal of things when they go wrong. Imagine...the Bush Whitehouse. A couple days ago, after he had gone into the bathroom and did his business without telling me and without any prompting, I told him that I was "So proud" of him. I did so in a nauseating and outwardly patronizing manner. To this, he responded, "I'm proud of you for going poopy on the potty too daddy." I didn't think I would hear this from my child until my twilight years, but considering by that time the Percocet had ground my bowels to a screeching halt, he was spot on. And on that note, unless the analog comparison is having one's intestines visited by a barbed plumber snake, woman's laxatives are not "gentle".
There are a few things that he'll say that we understand, but do not expect the general public to grasp. We understand the quizzical looks when he says "Don't forget your Robot Detector" when leaving the house, or "To the Sultan's Palace!" when he gets into the car. You see, it all comes from the aforementioned Backyardigans. This (more specifically..."Cops and Robots") is also the explanation for his recent fascination with law enforcement. A few points of contention however...quickly. Remember, he IS the police. He is not a member of the police force. He is not an officer. He is THE police. Him. Alone. Second, he likes to wear his blue corduroy coat to signify his position as "the police'. Because nothing says "cop" like a little boy with a dictator-like disposition wearing a tiny blue sport coat.
Since my knee surgery, the normal greeting from Max is "hey dad...how's the leg?". He says it like he's a locker room buddy nonchalantly inquiring about my marriage or something. "So Jay, how'r you and whatsernuts doin?" Totally informal and passing. Funnier yet is that my normal response, which just so happens to be "it hurts", isn't good enough. He is looking for either "good" or "bad" here. No frills. No "it's alright I guess considering the circumstances". Nope. He's an all or nothing type guy.
On a related note, he's really into ice and ice packs and using them to treat injuries. We had to put locks on the fridge/freezer after finding him in his room with an ice pack resting on his foot. When asked what he was doing, he stated that he was simply treating a recent injury. When a person asks what type of injury, he usually describes the normal stuff. Things like "I hit my foot" or "I fell down" or "I was walking on the street and I ran into a fire truck".
Finally, quite often the answer to anyone's questions will be "I don't care." This is curious considering it will be his answer for things that aren't normally answered in this manner.
"Max, do you have to go to the potty? "I don't care."
"Max, eat your fish sticks." "I don't care."
"Max, what color is your shirt?" "I don't care."
He's apathetic about everything. I hope he's not doing drugs.
Lucy, on the other hand, doesn't really say much of anything. She's got "Mama" and "Daddy" down pretty good. She also says "Pippy" and "Lazzy" quite a bit. She says "Please" when prompted. She says "Thank you" as well. However, the latter is done when giving something TO someone instead of receiving. She's not quite as verbal as Max was. However, talking isnt' her strong point. Instead, her forte is putting her life in danger.
The girl climbs EVERYTHING. It's as though she scans the room to determine what things are capable of being scaled. Then, of the\ose items, she picks the one with the highest possibility of head injury. For instance, when given the choice between a couch and a rocking chair, she will choose the rocking chair. And once she has gotten to the top of the rocking chair, she will stand upon it and rock it back and forth without using her hands. She does this allthewhile looking right at me as if to say "Whattaya gonna do 'bout it, gimpy? I could jump off of here right now and get a concusion before you could pick up your crutches." She's right too. And even when I get her down from whatever peak she has ascended to, the moment I put her down she's trying to haul her butt up on top of the kitchen table, or trying to use the bathroom drawers as a stepladder, or doing a jig on the toilet tank. Both Shanna and I are convinced that she is destined to be an X-athlete. And she has the bruises on her face to prove it. The poor little thing looks like a bare knuckle street fighter half of the time.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and pick them up.
