Not a Pundit yet

Last night was another democratic party debate. I wanted to test Smith's retention of the candidates and the issues.

Me: "Smith, who is that guy"
Smith: "Barack OBAMA!"
Me: "Very good! Now, who is the woman?"
Smith: "Barack . . . O'Mama?"

Sour Straw Gross Out

Congratulations to Smith's mom for posting her first Smittyism. Hopefully, it will be the first of many.

This next post is not for the faint of stomach. I suggest that many of you should put down your mouse, back away from the keyboard, and go on with your day. Only if you fit into one of the following categories should you continue reading:

a) You are not my mother or mother-in-law;
b) You are not offended by any Will Ferrell movie;
c) In your opinion, Joe Namath looks better with his shirt off than Brad Pitt; or
d) If you remember Senator Orrin Hatch's questions to Clarence Thomas during his confirmation hearing, you thought they were funny, not disgusting.

Scroll down, if you dare.



Are you sure you want to do this?


Okay, I warned you.

Smitty and I are kindred spirits in many ways. One such way is that we both are candy lovers; but we won't just eat any kind of candy. We love the gummy, the sour, the chewy and the sugary candy. We pass on M&M's for sour skittles. We scoff at licorice in favor of airheads. For my birthday, I got a three pound bag of gummy bears from someone at work. Smith gave me a jumbo-sized bag of gummy cola bottles (my gummy of choice) and a bag of sour gummy worms. We are set until spring.

This particular day, we were shopping for a birthday present and happened to go to Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart sells big boxes of sour straws (and other various types of good sugar candy) for $0.88. That is a screaming deal. Lately, I've seen boxes half that size at convenient stores for $1.29. We purchased one box of green apple sour straws, and had it open before we got to the car.

We continued our errands, when I heard an "uh-oh" from the back seat. Smith had dropped a sour straw. No biggie. At the next stop light, I picked it up and handed it too him. I soon heard a faint whimper from the back seat. He sounded like a wounded dog. "What's wrong?" I asked. "There is a hair on my sour straw," Smith moaned. "Just pull it off. It will be fine." I assured him. This time, in a frail and shaky voice, Smith uttered, "But I'm scared." "Why are you scared?" I wondered. Smith replied, "Because it is a twisty dad hair!"

Sharp or Swiss?

Mom: "Smith check out the moon...it's huge."

Smith: "Um, Mom, that's because of the cheese. And, it's so yellow since it's just cheese."

Mom: "Oh. I thought it was just a full moon."

Smith: "You should know this. Tonight the moon is big because it's the cheesiest."

Thanks to Smitty's wonderful Uncles, I guess he still thinks that the moon is made of cheese.

Future Pundit?

You may know of my past attempts to indoctrinate Smith with my own preferences and opinions. Those attempts have not gone well. Last night was no different.

After dinner, I lead Smith into the family room and asked if he wanted to watch a little TV with his daddy. "Yes! Let's do it!" exclaimed Smith. (It doesn't take much to excite him.) Little did he know he was about to get his first lesson in presidential primary politics. We sat on the couch and I began flipping through the channels. I happened to land on MSNBC. "What could this be?" I feigned. Smith looked up and actually seemed interested. I explained to Smith that these people wanted to be the next president and they are on TV to tell everyone why we should vote for them. "They want to be President Hinckley?" Smith asked. No, and I explained that there are two presidents: one for the church and one for the country. I felt an urge to discuss Thomas Jefferson and the separation of church and state, but I resisted.

We watched together for a couple of minutes when Smith asked the golden question. "Dad, which one do you like?" I thought to myself, 'This is it! Here is my opportunity!' I proceeded cautiously. "Well, that guy is Barack Obama. I kind of like him right now." Smith sensed my poor attempt at subtle persuasion, smirked, and said, "That guy looks like a doo-doo bird, or something." Then he laughed at me.

Next, the camera panned to John Edwards. "Well what does that guy look like?" I asked. Smith studied the TV. "His face looks like a toy. Maybe like a toy superhero."

I next asked Smith if he liked the woman candidate. "What woman?" he asked. "The one in the middle," I answered. "Where? There's no woman," he insisted. "Yes there is. She is next to Barack Obama." The camera zeroed in on Hillary. "That looks like a man with a necklace. And he's wearing earrings."

I'm Adam Romney and I do not approve this message.

"My brain and my heart. . . ."

Me: "The End." Okay Smith, let me tuck you in.

Smith: Dad, do I have soccer again tomorrow?

Me: No . . . not until next week.

Smith: Oh. [Conceding, he lies head back onto pillow.] Dad, soccer is my favorite sport. Right now, my body is sleepy, but my brain and my heart are still playing soccer.

Smith's Approach to Life

Smith: "On my first birthday, I was two."

Mom: "No you weren't, you were one."

Smith: "Then on my second birthday, I was four."

You might have gotten your kid too much for Christmas if. . .

when he opens a gift that contains clothes, he reacts by turning around and throwing the item into the corner of the room while exclaiming, "NOT A TOY!" and then he turns around and says, in a way that is more of an assertion than a request, "I can open the big one now?" Next year, I'm taking him to the soup kitchen.

Smith's Brain Cells

For Thanksgiving, the Colorado-Romneys road-tripped to Utah. It was relatively painless, even though Highway 6 was closed, forcing us to take a long and winding road from Helper to Duschesne. Before that detour, we stopped for gas in Price. It was bitterly cold outside, so when I got out of the car, I tried to work fast. Once I hurried to get the credit card worked out, informed Chevron that I did not want a car wash, and got the pump into the car, I leaned back and waited with my hands in my pockets, trying to keep warm.

At that point, I heard a wistful voice from behind me say, "I love this smell. . . ." I looked over my shoulder and saw Smith sniffing gas. By "sniffing gas" I mean his nose was pressed up against the metal nozzle of the gas pump, right next to the hole in the car where the pump is inserted, while he inhaled deeply through his nose. "Smith, STOP!" I yelled. I was expecting his eyes to roll back, and for his body to go limp. Instead, he grinned and said to me, "Dad, I really . . . like the smell of gas."

Smith was pretty quiet for the remaining few hours of the drive.

Birthdays

There seems to have been a lot of talk in our house lately about birthdays. Smith has been invited to a few parties lately, and Smith's cousin Chase had a birthday while he was here visiting last week. On Saturday, I was taking Smith to another of his buddy's birthday parties and I think Smith got to wondering when it would be his turn to have a birthday party again.

"Dad, the next birthday party is going to be for me, right?"

I replied, "Actually, your birthday is a long ways off. We have to celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Easter, the 4th of July, and a few other holidays before we will celebrate your birthday again."

"Oh . . . what day is my birthday?" Smith asked.

"September 11th."

Right then, we arrived at the party. There were about 50 people in attendance: 20 kids and 30 parents, all crammed into the old CU bowling alley. The host of the party greeted us, as did a few other parents and friends. I said hello, but Smith's head was still stuck on picturing his own birthday party, so he returned their greetings by screaming out, "I LOVE SEPTEMBER 11TH! I LOVE SEPTEMBER 11TH! I AM GOING TO HAVE THE BIGGEST PARTY IN THE WORLD ON SEPTEMBER 11TH!"

I think every head in the room turned and stared at us. I am sure my face turned a deep shade of red . . . maybe purple. I was able to explain to tell those within close proximity that September 11th is Smith's birthday and he is already looking forward to his next birthday party; however, the rest of the people at the party may still think we are terrorists.

No descriptive explanation needed

"Sorry mom, I thought it was a toot . . . but it was a poop-toot."

O'Thank You Poppie!

Poppie, in case you are wondering, is Grandma Clark. A few days back, Smith wanted to tell Poppie thank you for letting us stay with her at the cabin last week. Smith loves the cabin. Like every kid, he loves seeing wildlife, playing in the rocks and dirt and going on hikes (which he calls "hunts"). The cabin is really the best of all of his worlds. So, the other day, Smith and I set about writing Poppie a thank you card.

But before I tell that story, I have to provide some background information. Since Smith has become interested in learning to read and write, he has made it crystal clear, on numerous occasions, and with exceeding emphasis, that his favorite letter is "O." If there is an O within Smith's proximity, he will identify it. If presented with pen and paper, Smith will commence by writing the letter O. When attempting to spell most words, Smith begins by writing the letter O; this includes the spelling of his own name. Whenever he sees his own name in writing, he will write an O in front of it, like this: "O'Smith." We have recently noticed that the artwork and projects that come home from church and school are signed by the teacher, "O'Smith." He can be very persuasive.

So . . . back to thanking Poppie. On the thank you card, Smith drew a black sand monster robot. I asked him to sign his oeuvre. "Dad, I can do it myself!" Fine, go ahead buddy. Smith gripped his pen and began to write with such concentration and force that he could have etched it into stone. Once completed, Smith handed me the card with his name written prominently at the bottom: "OSHITM."

Abs

The other day, I was sitting in a chair feeding Laine from a bottle. I was cradling Laine in my left arm while holding a burp cloth under her chin with my right hand and the bottle was propped up against my chest with the nipple directed downward into her mouth. Smith walked over and looked very excited. "Dad! Are you feeding Laine from your abs?"

Happy 4th Birthday Smitty

Whitley put on a great birthday party for Smith. Here are some highlights:

1. Here is the crew. Yes, it was a superhero birthday party.

2. Pin the spider on Spiderman.

3. Smith blowing out candles, but what I really like is the sneaky Spiderman over his shoulder trying to do the job himself.

4. Two nice pictures of Smith, but the best part is the rogue Spiderman scaling the wall in the background.

Imaginary . . . Friends?

Lately, Smith has been referring to what could be described as imaginary friends. There is not a specific imaginary friend, like I had as a kid (his name was Kenny), but imaginary things that Smith seems to interact with regularly.

This began a few weeks ago when the family went on a Saturday hike around Estes Park. On the hike, Smith caught several imaginary wolves, tied leashes around their neck, and made Whitley and me hold the leashes throughout the duration of the hike. Anytime we relaxed our hand from the leash-holding position (which, for the uninitiated, means arm down at your side, elbow bent at a 90 degree angle, with your hand positioned as if gripping the string of a helium balloon), Smith called us to task. Throughout the hike, Smith gave the wolves orders, sent wolves on hunting expeditions, and released those wolves who did not behave. After the hike, Smith helped the wolves into the back of the car, and they have been there ever since.

Next . . . how do I put this . . . Smith began referring to his brain in the third person. For example, we were walking into Blockbuster, and there was a poster for the movie "Wild Hogs" on the front window. Smith explains to me, "Dad, wild hogs are motorcycles, not pigs." Impressed, I ask, "How did you know that?" Smith explains, "My brain told me." "How did your brain do that?" I wondered. "My brain tells me lost of things." Then just yesterday, Smith drew an excellent depiction of "Brown rabbit alien that is nice, not mean." When I asked how he knew what a rabbit alien looked like, he explained, "My brain told me. Brain tells me everything. Brain tells me to drink some orange juice. Dad, can you get brain and me some orange juice?"

Finally, Smith regularly plays with imaginary teenage mutant ninja turtles. For those who have had the pleasure of learning the finer points of the ninja turtle lifestyle, you know that ninja turtles live in the sewer. Smith is very keen to this fact. Somehow, he has interpreted the ninja turtles sewer dwelling to mean that ninja turtles deserve preferential treatment in the bathroom. Confused? Well, when I take Smith into the bathroom, and the ninja turtles are accompanying us, Smith opens the lid, and says, "Okay, first, its the orange guy." Then he waits about 15 seconds, and says, "Now its blue's turn," and on he goes until the red and purple ninja turtles have also had their turn. But not until the ninja turtles have each had their turn at the toilette will Smith acquiesce and finally just go.

It's too early for the "birds and the bees" discussion, but. . .

Smith: Dad, do you have a band-aid on your belly-button?

Me: No.

Smith: I do.

Me: Really? Did you hurt yourself?

Smith: No, I cut a hole in my stomach to see all the babies. And Laine was in there.

Terrifying words from a three-year-old with arms too short to reach his bottom

Setting: It is 6:45 p.m. in Superior, Colorado, Dad has just gotten home from work, and the entire family is rushing out the house for a 7:00 appointment.

Whitley: Smith, do you need to go potty before we leave?
Smith: No. I already went poop.
Whitley: What? When?
Smith: This day . . . in the morning time.
Whitley: Who wiped you?
Smith: I did.

Irrational Rage

When I came home from work yesterday, Smitty was completely exhausted from a sun-baked day at the pool. The moment I saw him, I knew he was on the brink of collapse--and his state-of-being was bringing our home to an emotional boil. It was when I heard Whitley say something about retrieving her .22 and rubber gloves that it occurred to me to take Smith upstairs with me while I changed.

As is my routine, I changed into shorts and a t-shirt and headed for the bathroom with Smith yapping at my heals. I raised the lid of the toilet and saw that Smith hadn't flushed his no. 1 from earlier in the day. No biggie. I've seen him do this; in the bathroom I can tell he is thinking that he can't waste time on frivolities like flushing the toilet, especially when he is building the biggest Lego tower in the world in his room. Nevertheless, I yelled to him, "Smith, you forgot to flush! Next time, remember to flush!" And then I went no. 1. And then Smith exploded.

"DON'T PEE ON MY PEE!!! DON'T PEE ON MY PEE!!! DADDY . . . YOU JUST PEED ON MY PEE!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH!!! MOM, DADDY JUST PEED ON MY PEEEEE!!! WAAAAAAAAAA!!!"

And that was the end of Smith's day. Bed time.

Private

How should I put this . . . in our family, we are not comfortable saying the "P word." Heck, I refuse to even type it. So instead of teaching our children the actual names for their body parts, we have resorted to awkward monikers. In our family, we have done this by changing the word "private" from an adjective to a noun. Get it?

A few nights ago, I was reading to Smith at bedtime. We were reading "Where the Wild Things Are," which surprisingly, he doesn't really like. One would think that a kid like Smith would relate to Max and get into bossing around huge monsters, but for some reason, Smith has never really liked it. Anyway, for some reason, he chose it that night. We read about Max refusing to eat dinner, being sent to his room and his room turning into a jungle. Then, I read the following line to Smith, ". . . and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max and he sailed off through day and night."

Smith blurts out, "What the . . . Dad, what is a private boat?" I don't understand why he is confused, and I quickly say, "Smith, it's a boat just for Max." Smith has an unsatisfied look on his face. "What?" he asks, and repeats the question. "A private boat Dad . . . what is a private boat?" I still don't get it. I turn and look at him face-to-face. "Smith, a private boat is a boat just for Max. It is a private boat." But as I say the words, I realize what is going on.

Smith contemplates my answer. Then, he says, "Yeah, my private is a boat too. This is so cool. . . . Dad, my private boat is sooo fast."

Bug bite

I came home from work the other day and tout de suite went about the usual routine of kicking off my shoes, untucking my shirt and bracing myself for immediate impact from a charging Smith . . . when I noticed something. Smith's right ear was about twice the size as his left. Not his entire ear, but the top of his ear was red and had ballooned like Martin Short in "Pure Luck," Will Smith in "Hitch" or that guy's pierced tongue in "Rat Race."

"Woah! Smith!" I said, "What the heck happened to your ear?"

Smith immediately lowered his head and covered the offending ear with his hand, hiding it from my view. "It got swallowed."

"What?" I asked.

"It got swallowed dad. A bug bit my ear, and swallowed it."

(Moment of stupor)

"Whit, what happened to Smith's ear?" I needed a second opinion. "A bug bit his ear, and now it is swollen," said my disturbingly indifferent wife.

Ooohhh.

Seriously, life must be so confusing for three-year-olds.

He's Back!

Getting into the van:

Me: "Hey Smith, are you going to climb up into the car on my side or on yours?"

Smith: "Up yours, dad."