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."

Gospel Q&A with Smith

Smith's primary teacher found me after church one day and told me about the answers Smith gave that day in class. (Before I continue, let me just say that this was not the first time this woman has come searching for me. Once, she stopped me after church and said that while the children were trying to practice some songs for the Mother's Day program, Smith decided that he did not want to participate, so he put his fingers in his ears, and began yelling, "LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!!! She wanted me to "address the issue" with my son.) The first three Q&A's were related to me by Smith's primary teacher. The fourth is from something Smith said to Whitley today.

Q: Who lived in the Garden of Eden?
A: My dad and Eve.

Q: Who did Noah bring on the Ark?
A: All kinds of animals, and two Santa Clauses.

Q: Who gave you your body?
A: Not Jesus. It wasn't Jesus.

Q: What is your favorite primary song?
A: "I Am a Giant of God"

A New Low

A while back, we were driving to a favorite restaurant, when we passed a Ford dealership. Smith saw the Ford insignia and said, "Dad, there is American Idol!" Oh, the shame.

I promise we don't watch that show . . . much.

Steel Trap

On Saturday, Smith and I were at Sports Clips to get him a haircut. The only book they had in the waiting area was a Sports Illustrated NFL 50th Anniversary picture book. We opened it up to a picture of Peyton Manning. Smith saw the helmet and said, "Hey, I know them. It's the horsey team! But I wanted the Bears to win."

In case you forgot, the Colts beat the Bears in Super Bowl XLI, 29 to 17.

Deep Thoughts

This morning, within 15 minutes of waking up, Smith uttered three deep, profound thoughts:

Thought One: "Dad, when we go camping, let's get a tent that has robot fingers and big tires."

Thought Two: While Smith and I sauntered along the sidewalk (yes, we were the first ones at the park that morning at circa 7:15 a.m.), Smith asked, "Dad, what is that!" It was a huge bird poop on the sidewalk. "Bird poop? Wow . . . I love bird poop. . . ."

Thought Three: "Dad, can you lift that tree up over your head? No? Shrek can."

Never Talk to Strangers

We own a children's book entitled, "Never Talk to Strangers." As you would guess, it teaches kids not to talk to, or go with strangers, even if the stranger appears fun or nice, or invites the child to do fun things. I think Smith has learned the letter-but not the spirit-of this lesson.

Friday night we went to a barbecue at a friend's house, located adjacent to a large public park with a playground. At one point, Smith, along with a slew of other kids, went to the playground with the father of our friend. Twenty-or-so minutes later, I realized I hadn't heard Smith's uncanny shrieks and shrills for a while (an unusual occurrence), so I decided to go and check on him. Smith was just fine, and was being pushed in the swing by our friend's father.

When I approached to relieve him, he told me that Smith had gone up to every other parent at the park (there were about 15), tugged on their finger or shorts, and asked, "Can you swing me, or are you a stranger?" According to our friend's father, none of the parents knew how to respond. They said things like, "Where is your mommy?" or, "Well, I am a stranger, but I'm a nice stranger."

I wonder if the children's book, "Never Invite Strangers to Play" has been written yet. . . .

Taking Notes

A while back, I was watching something on tv (probably Sportscenter or MSNBC) and Smith said something like, "Dad, this is a very interesting show. I need to take notes." He went to the kitchen and found a small pocket-sized notebook and pen. He returned to the family room, pushed his red rocking chair up to the coffee table, sat down, opened his book and assumed note-taking position with his pen. He watched the show for a few moments, until something struck him, causing him to put pen to paper and begin writing, carefully and deliberately. As he wrote, he slowly spoke the few letters for which he knows the names: "A . . . E . . . S . . . O . . . S . . . I . . . O . . . M . . . O . . . ." What he produced appears below.

Quel chanteur!

Here is a movie of Smitty showing off his singing skills.

Fertilizer Anyone?

Last weekend, we were in Salt Lake City for a wedding. On Saturday night, one of Whitley's friends invited us, along with a bunch of other people over for a barbecue. There were oodles of kids wriggling around the yard, screaming, shouting, crying, laughing, fighting, etc. At one point, Smith became so overcome with excitement that he had an accident, of the second variety. In other words, he did a little poop in his pants.

Whitley's friend's husband thought of a way to remedy the situation without ruining the fun. He brought out the Super Soaker Water Volcano. The idea is simple: you plug a hose into the volcano, pressure builds and builds as the volcano's eyes get wider and wider, and then, the volcano erupts, blasting water over 15 feet in the air.

Once the Water Volcano was unveiled, it took Smith about two seconds to get completely naked. We dared Smith to sit down on the volcano, which he did, only a little hesitantly. I bet you can imagine the rest. A mutually beneficial outcome resulted: clean bum on the ride home for us, fertilized lawn for them.