The boys
Our little men are being particularly cute at the moment. Tantrums and squealing aside, and the fact that they are going through such different phases, they manage to bring big belly laughs into our days very frequently.
Oliver loves hiding. He is a monumentally bad hider. I mean really, really bad. But he loves it. He hides when Dada comes home, he hides when he sees Dada, squealing "we must hide Mama, Dada is home", he hides in towels, under duvets, behind curtains, anywhere that will take him. He sings all the time now too, we got through the entirety of Puff the Magic Dragon today with no errors on his part. It's a little weird listening to a two year old singing about "noble Kings and Princes bow whene'er they came"; I'm a little frightened at how he remembers all the words to Thomas the Tank Engine and the new favourite Chuggington; and the perfect pitch of the singing is in serious doubt, but I love it when he's singing. His gorgeous, beautiful, and utterly serious face, concentrating on the important matter in hand.
Pip is coming on leaps and bounds with his language. He's always telling us "that's a [insert appropriate noun]" and asking "where's Dada/ball/other object of his affection?". He is beyond obsessed by balls, dogs and cats, chasing all of the aforementioned whenever he gets the chance. He had to be restrained heavily at Oliver's football lessons and they have kindly allowed him to join in the pre-lesson warm up, mainly due to heavy petitioning by a doe-eyed Pip. Suckers. He has a tendency to stand on the sideline of the lesson with one ball under each arm, pointing out all the other balls in the room (this is a football lesson and there are many, many balls in attendance). Then he spends the rest of the lesson trying to pick up a third ball and being flummoxed by how he can do this.
When not chasing balls, he is mainly trying to put his hand down his pants, saying "willy" which sounds remarkably like wee-wee and then informing me he's done a poo. "Poo poo" in a loud voice wherever is the most embarrassing. I thought we'd reached a truce in the potty department after Oliver stopped his potty training, but sadly no.
So there you go: a tiny snapshot of two boys growing up fast. I'm smiling as I type.
Oliver loves hiding. He is a monumentally bad hider. I mean really, really bad. But he loves it. He hides when Dada comes home, he hides when he sees Dada, squealing "we must hide Mama, Dada is home", he hides in towels, under duvets, behind curtains, anywhere that will take him. He sings all the time now too, we got through the entirety of Puff the Magic Dragon today with no errors on his part. It's a little weird listening to a two year old singing about "noble Kings and Princes bow whene'er they came"; I'm a little frightened at how he remembers all the words to Thomas the Tank Engine and the new favourite Chuggington; and the perfect pitch of the singing is in serious doubt, but I love it when he's singing. His gorgeous, beautiful, and utterly serious face, concentrating on the important matter in hand.
Pip is coming on leaps and bounds with his language. He's always telling us "that's a [insert appropriate noun]" and asking "where's Dada/ball/other object of his affection?". He is beyond obsessed by balls, dogs and cats, chasing all of the aforementioned whenever he gets the chance. He had to be restrained heavily at Oliver's football lessons and they have kindly allowed him to join in the pre-lesson warm up, mainly due to heavy petitioning by a doe-eyed Pip. Suckers. He has a tendency to stand on the sideline of the lesson with one ball under each arm, pointing out all the other balls in the room (this is a football lesson and there are many, many balls in attendance). Then he spends the rest of the lesson trying to pick up a third ball and being flummoxed by how he can do this.
When not chasing balls, he is mainly trying to put his hand down his pants, saying "willy" which sounds remarkably like wee-wee and then informing me he's done a poo. "Poo poo" in a loud voice wherever is the most embarrassing. I thought we'd reached a truce in the potty department after Oliver stopped his potty training, but sadly no.
So there you go: a tiny snapshot of two boys growing up fast. I'm smiling as I type.
posted by Emma Sweetwater at
March 20, 2009
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