Cheerios.

Hannah is sick again today. She was sick yesterday too, and last night I was up until the wee hours with her, rubbing her feverish forehead and reading to her from "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe." During which time she used both of the following phrases: "Mom, I don't feel very well," and "Who is the author of this book?" It seems my daughter may have mastered the English language entirely at the age of five.

This morning we slept in a little. Hannah is still in bed. The rascals (aka Carter and Ethan) tromped into my room, mussy haired heads and all at 8 am, just to inform me that they were, in fact, awake. I heard them tromp back down the hall, into their bedroom, and onto their bunk beds. I could hear them romping around for a minute or so before Carter made the customary morning trip to the bathroom, accompanied by Ethan of course. I got up when I heard Hannah crying about someone turning the light to the Jack and Jill bathroom on and off, on and off. It was Ethan. He was pushing the light switch up and down with his fat little fingers, perfect glee evident on his chubby little booger covered face. I thought I could maybe nibble him down to nothing right there.

When they were done with the bathroom I followed the boys out to the kitchen, got Hannah a drink and took it back to her, sprawled out on her bed in feverish misery. I asked her if she wanted to come and lay on the couch. She said no, which means she feels really really bad. I think we'll be taking a drive to pediatrics today.

When I came back out into the kitchen Ethan was holding his chubby hand up to his eye and crying. Carter said he poked Ethan's eye, "but it was just an accident." I believed him because Ethan concurred with his overemphasized nod. (Craig alone knows what that means) Of course this meant Ethan wanted to be held and snuggle his face into my chest then sit up every thirty seconds or so with a Popeye like expression and show me his war wound by pointing with that same little candy corn finger. In the meantime, Carter was busy at work, pulling his apron down, the one Craig painted horses and tanks on for him, having me tie it, and informing me that he was going to "cook Ethan breakfast, but not use the oven." When Ethan felt better he climbed down off my lap and I sat on the couch with my chin on the armrest watching Carter's cowlick bob in and out of view behind the counter, as he pulled the bowls down, took them over to the pantry, fished the Cheerios out from the cupboard, retrieved the milk from the fridge, and got two adult size spoons from the drawer. Everything set gently on the floor he shook the Cheerios into the bowl, twisted off the milk cap and carefully poured it into the bowls. The milk that is, not the cap.

When he was done, and it was clear that Ethan would rather eat at the table instead of the floor, Carter obliged, with a whispered "oops," when he spilled two Cheerios on the table.

They're running around playing cowboys right now, with their little handmade toy guns with their names carved in the size. Their little mouths are firing out the word "pchew!" every time the gun fires. Carter still has his apron on. He asked to go outside and when I said it was a little chilly and did he want a jacket, he replied, "that's okay, I have my apron."

The milk and Cheerios are still sitting on the floor by the pantry.


Man I love my kids.