Finger Quotes

Last week, I noticed Smith doing finger quotes. That's right "finger quotes." In mid-sentence, Smith raised both hands, formed peace signs with his fingers, looked me right in the eyes, and uttered a phrase while simultaneously bending his fingers. Yes, finger quotes.

Although Smith's keen observation skills allowed him to catch on to the finger quotes phenomenon, Smith failed to master their proper usage. I have seen him use finger quotes in three situations, all incorrect.

1. When he thinks you didn't hear him the first time. (E.g., "Dad, I said I wanted a (open finger quote) QUE-SUH-DEE-UH (close finger quote)."
2. When he is telling a secret. (E.g., In the softest voice Smith can muster, which isn't very soft at all, "(open finger quote) Dad, just take my pull-up off and (fingers still bending and extending) put on my Batman underwear (still going) without Mommy seeing us (close finger quote)."
3. When he experiences extreme excitement. (E.g., "Yes! Dad, we (open finger quote) KILLED (close finger quote) the bad guy!")

It's what's for dinner

Smith: Hey Dad, lions need claws. They need claws to get sticks for their dinner.

Me: Sticks for dinner?

Smith: Yes. Lions eat stecks for dinner.

Me: Stecks? Steaks? Lions eat steaks?

Smith: Yes, lions eat steaks.

Me: Where do lions find steaks?

Smith: From the zebra's bum.

Today . . .

Whitley caught Smith with her breast pump suctioned to his chest.

Sundays

Since Whitley has been staying home from church with Laine, Smith has resisted going to church each Sunday. Yesterday was no different.

I explain to him, "Smith, we go to church on Sundays. That is just the way it is." "No, dad. We don't!" Smith humphs and folds his arms. But I do not relent. "I'm sorry Smith, but that is just what we do on Sundays. We go to church." Exasperated, Smith brings me up to his level. "Dad, we go to church on snowy days and cloudy days, but not on Sun-days. Let's go to the park."

Yankees and Red Sox

Smith and I were at the park yesterday, and Smith was donning his Yankees hat. Another dad approached the swings with his son. The other dad was wearing a Red Sox hat and sweatshirt. I directed Smith's attention toward him. "Smith, that guy is wearing Red Sox stuff!" Smith scowled, pointed, and yelled at him, "HEY YOU STINKER CRACKER!!!"

Time to move to the monkey bars.

Straight talk about tooting

*toot*

"Smith, did you toot?"

"Yes, s'cuse me. Dad, do you like to toot?"

"Um . . . if I am in the bathroom, I do."

"Dad, I like to toot everywhere."

The Evolution of Art

It is another ordinary day, another blank page, another random assortment of markers. Smith selects a marker and begins furiously moving his arm, back and forth, pressing as hard as he can. He stops. He realizes he can do more than just dig this marker into the paper until it bleeds through, staining Mom's eggshell white table. He draws two circles. He pauses. A light bulb turns on. "Those are eyes! I can draw eyes!" He adds two small dots as pupils. What is next? A mouth, yes, he draws a mouth. But this is only the beginning."Mom, Dad, I can draw a cat!" He is on to the next blank paper and the next marker. He begins his oeuvre. He begins to draw his cat, and provides verbal play-by-play of each step; "First I draw the eyes, then the mouth, then the head," et cetera. The astute observer will also see whiskers, ears, a tail, fierce claws, and two disjointed legs.
When the work is complete, Smith tilts his head back and rubs his chin, "I think this is a mouse. Squeek! Squeek!"

TV Channels

Last Thursday, I settled down in front of the TV, turned it to channel nine, and prepared for my weekly ritual of watching "The Office." From the corner of my eye, I saw Smith coming my way. He took one look at the TV and said, "Not NBC! I hate NBC!"

Lucky guess . . . perhaps . . . but he has correctly identified NBC three times since then.

Smith also regularly requests his favorite channel by name, "pbs kids dot org."

Lightsabers

In the course of potty-training Smitty, I sometimes resorted to offering him the incentive of a light saber duel . . . if you know what I mean. I now regret this. Each time nature calls, Smith drags me into the bathroom, yelling, "My light saber is going to be BIGGER, MEANER, GREENER, BADDER, and COOLER than yours!" It has been going on for a few months at home, and happened yesterday at sacrament meeting, during what felt like a very quiet moment.

Blasick

"Dad, I want a blasick."

What?

"A bla-sick."

I have no idea what Smith is talking about. Smith perceives as much, and decides to take matters into his own hands. He walks to the fridge, opens the door, and begins excavating. I am as curious as he is determined, so I don't intevene. Finally, Smith attains the outer reaches of the bottom shelf, and hefts out a huge bottle of pickles.

"Dad, I want a blasick." I open the jar, and hand Smith a Vlasic, dill pickle, wrapped in a paper towel. He takes one satisfied bite, and says in a matter-of-fact tone, "Blasicks are juicy and crunchy!"

Heaven, we have a problem.

In previous posts, I have described how Smith garners some misplaced feelings for Jesus. I am not sure what to do about it.

Smith says our dinner prayer just about every night. He usually does pretty well for about three or four stanzas, and then he'll open his eyes and look to Whitley or me for a cue. Last night, after his usual intro, he looked up at me for help. I said in a prayerful voice, ". . . and please bless Lainey." His brow furrowed. He looked back at me and said, "No. Don't bless Lainey and don't bless Jesus either."

Advice? Anyone?

Deodorant Dive

This morning, Smith was in the tub while I was at the sink getting ready for work. We were engaged in our normal morning banter when I began to put on my deodorant.

"What that does?" Smith blurted, pointing to my armpit. "What does that do." I said, paternally. "What that DOOOO????" "Well," I explained, "It makes it so I'm not stinky." Smith was immediately overcome with ecstasy. "I wanna try it!" I couldn't think of a reason why he shouldn't, so I passed him the deodorant.

Smith reached out and grabbed the deodorant. But instead of directing the deodorant to his armpit, as he had just observed me do, the deodorant changed course to a downward angle, and plunged into the bath water. Exactly what transpired at that point is somewhat unclear. Bath water, you see, becomes milky after bodies have been washed in it. What I can tell you is that my deodorant was aimed in the general direction of Smith's rear end, and that Smith contorted his body into a position reminiscent of a break dancer. There, the deodorant remained for enough time for Smith to apply the deodorant, in generous proportions, to his bum (or so I suppose).

Finished, Smith handed me the deodorant, which was now not only water-logged, but contaminated. The expression on my face must have begged for an explanation, because he surprisingly gave me one: "I just tooted."