Grandad’s under there somewhere.
Paul learns the ways of the Klingner men. (They’re measuring how far they can jump.)
I’m starting a log of the hilarious (?) story requests I receive from Annie and Paul (but mostly Annie), for their entertainment and sensemaking, and you tell me when to call the child psychologist.
- Tell me a story about when Dory got stung by jellyfish.
- Tell me a story about when Elsa killed a pig and cooked it for her family.
- Tell me a story about Bambi, when the hunters shot his mother and she died.
- Tell me a BRAND NEW story, and it has to be a LONG story. You can decide what it’s about.
- Tell me a story about Elsa when Elsa was a gnat and a spider got her.
- Tell me a story about when Elsa put her monster truck in the bath.
- Tell me a story about when Holly Shiftwell DIED.
A few weeks into potty training, Paul is definitely on the right trajectory. Poops were tough at first, but yesterday saw two successful scores, and we got a report of another one at school today. PHEW. I have had about enough of scraping feces out of butt cracks, I tell you what.
Last night we had a small party for Shanna to celebrate her last date-night with us before she leaves for a job teaching kindergarten. During the festivities, Paul ran up to me clutching his butt and saying breathlessly, “OH! I have to go potty!” and we hustled right in there and made good. He was rightfully proud and burst out announcing to the living room crowd, “I POOPED IN THE POTTY!” and the room full of toddler-parents and preschool teachers cheered. Positive reinforcement better even than a jelly bean.