Thanksgiving

One of the most gratifying thigns about this Thanksgiving was when William came around the corner and saw the table set for our feast.  He came to a dead stop, sucked in his breath, and then said, "that is beautiful", with a big smile on his face.

However, as you can see I did not get a picture of the beautiful set table.  It wasn't on purpose.  I just forgot.  Which is perhapse telling.  It isn't the china that makes Thanksgiving.  It's the faces behind the china that are the most important.

Toys, Who plays with Toys?

I have asked myself more times than I can count, "Why do we have a closet, no a room full of toys for our son?". Moreover, "Why do I stress about trying to find him 'good' toys?". He never plays with them, or hardly ever. Part of me still believes its because I just have not found him the right ones. I wonder if perhaps he will turn out to be a sissy momma’s boy because all he ever wants to do is whatever I'm doing. Well that is an overstatement. He does spend quite a bit of time outside, but not really playing with toys. Filling socks up with red dirt in order to transport it from one part of the yard to another, yes. And also, yes, they are the socks he was wearing when I sent him out to play. Why he feels the need to have sock buckets instead of using the three real buckets he has I'll never know. Just an aside, I've figured out how to deal with the red dirt stains all over his socks.  I just buy socks with blue bottoms and you can't tell if they are dirty or stained.  

Below is yet another way in which he occupies his time. Notice the flowers on the dogs head and his own. I'm not sure how long this game went on, but I do know it was much longer than any of the times he spends playing with a toy.  I'm sure you would not think to wonder where this pretty yellow flower came from, so let me enlighten you. It came from a mum I was trying to use to spruce up our front porch. We have, or I should say had, mums, bushes and a rose bush around our porch. Perhaps the rose bush will survive. If it does it will not have roses on it. Again, I can not understand the logic behind it, but my son can not resist the temptation to pluck peddles, leaves, and even branches. No amount of training, teaching, spanking, threatening, or bribing seems to work. Combine this habit with dogs who like to dig and you have one frustrated gardener.

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I Can Dress Myself

It was one of those days when I had a million things to do and a million things seemed to be happening to prevent me from doing them.  I'm not sure what led to William having to change clothes.  He probably went "tinkles" in his pants for the umpteenth time.  I told him to go change and that,  "yes he could play outside", but not in th,e "red dirt", as we like to say.  We live in a new subdivision, and the lot next to us is undeveloped.  William loves digging in the dirt, or I should say clay.  However, it had rained for several days hence the "no red dirt" command. 

After finally getting Katie and myself ready for a quick dash to the store during her "happy" time, I went to load up William.  See below for what I found.  Oh, the "red dirt" is about the most elevated spot in the subdivision.  I'm sure he must have brought a smile to the face of at least one of the many construction workers there that day. 

Holding Katie