Good morning

Act 1. All of a sudden, William walked into the bathroom this morning, right as I was getting in the shower. He opened the mirrored door on the small wooden cabinet that holds all my toiletries and grabbed the brown plastic canister of my American Crew pomade. "Was machst du?" I asked. "Ich mache mein hair spikey," he answered, quite matter-of-factly. And with my pomade in hand, he left.

Act 2. Evie and William have grown fond of the word "poopie." Instead of fighting a losing battle, I play a long and have fun with them. We call each other "Poopie" as a sort of pet name: "Hi, Poopie" or "Gute Nacht, Poopie." It sounds cuter if you don't think about it. Occasionally William, and sometimes Evie, will call me Papi, which to my ears is very endearing (maybe it's a mix of Papa and puppy?).

Act 3. Somewhere along the line, soap got involved, and at times they just run around saying "poopy soap, poopy soap!" I have no idea where they got it, or what sense it's supposed to make, but they sure think it's funny. So this morning as I'm in the shower, Evie came into the bathroom for a moment, just like William, and then left. As soon as she closed the door behind her, she opened it quickly again, said "poopy soap" and closed it again.

Hello Kitty!

Evie loves Hello Kitty. She loves pink. She loves her dresses and princesses and those Barbie movies with the awful, catchy, melodic songs. But that's another story.

In the last few days, Evie has taken to crawling on top of the couch in front of the big window and laying there on her stomach, across the big back cushion. Sometimes that how she watches a video on TV. Sometimes she stares out the window, following the birds and the squirrels from her perch in the sun.

"Hallo, Evie-Katze," I say as I notice her from the kitchen. She doesn't move, or acknowledge my acknowledgment. Without looking up, she only smirks a little, and resumes whatever else she was doing.

Puzzle

This afternoon, William asked if he could play on the computer. I randomly guessed that he was referring to his new Lego Star Wars game that he got for his birthday. He's allowed to play it once per day, with his sticker chart providing the necessary backup anytime he tries to get in too much screen time.

But when he asked today, I simply pulled out the trump card and calmly explained that we don't play video games on Sunday. He didn't blink. "I mean a church game!"

Of course! What was I thinking?

So I fired up lds.org, clicked on The Friend, and to my amazement saw that the Church is totally rocking this whole online experience thing with it's kids magazines. I clicked on the "Play Games" link. What happened next took my totally by surprise.

"Puzzle" said William. I couldn't believe it. Of the three options to choose from on the screen in front of him, "Puzzles" was the middle one. So I asked him, pointing with the mouse, "Did you read that?"

I then pointed to the other P word, right next to it, slowing moving the mouse under the word from left to right, and he said "Picture."

I couldn't believe it. (Yes, I already wrote that, but I thought it twice, too.) He had read two words, that I had never seen him read before, without prompting of any kind from me. Incredible.

So he clicked on the "Hidden Pictures" button, played with that for at least a half-hour, and totally forgot about Lego Star Wars. For now.

Say "cheese"

William this morning asked his mom for a "boy cheese". After he asked a second time, and clarified "not a girl cheese" I understood. He wasn't making a joke -- he meant it sincerely. He just wanted a boy-cheese sandwich, please.

Neighbors

William is riding his bike outside right now. (It's the green and purple one with white tires that our neighbor Steve gave him last year.) William is wearing his yellow fireman jacket; it's still a bit chilly today. He just rode across the drive to our Steve's house. Steve is in a wheelchair (but still quite active).

William set his bike on the ground in front of Steve's house and walked over to the newspaper that was wrapped in a thin, orange plastic bag and lying on the lawn. William picked up the newspaper from off the grass and stepped back onto Steve's front porch.

He just stood there a minute, facing the door, not moving -- looking at the paper, at the porch, at the tall, thin window next to the front door, thinking about where to put the paper. Then he pulled down on the gold handle of the storm door, opened it a little, placed the newspaper inside, and closed the door against it, making sure it would stay put.

Seeing that it wasn't going to fall down, he pushed the doorbell button with his little finger, then got back on his bike to ride away and help Burt's newspaper find the front door, too.

Snugs as bugs

The past few nights we've put Evie and William to bed around the same time, in the same room, which means they sing and chat and play. Evie especially loves to lie (or sit) in her bed and sing. Sometimes she'll tussle Williams hair if I've wrapped him up tight in his blanket "like a baby, when William was small," he says. (Like a burrito, I say.) Sometimes they'll even climb into each other's beds.

For a while I tried to put a stop to the playing, insisting they lay down and sleep. A couple days ago I was too lazy to go back in, so Mirjam and I just sat there on the couch watching Biggest Loser or something.

Around 8:30 or 9:00 I noticed they were both quiet. I remembered how I would sometimes chat with my brother at night when we were little and shared a room, or on campouts with the other boys in the tent. After a while the conversation would naturally die down and taper off into silence.

So now we've sort of adapted, too. We put the kids to bed around 7:00 p.m., and I let them chat and sing for a while, with the Hello Kitty night-light still glowing. I might go in if it gets too rowdy, but usually I'll just check in around 8:00 to turn the night-light off, give them another kiss on the head, pack them up tight again in their blankets, and let them doze off naturally.

Last night I came home around 9:30 p.m. to find William and Evie snuggled together in her crib. It was so cute -- absolutely adorable to see them together, gently breathing in and out, dreaming about Valentine's candies and Star Wars Legos. They love playing together so much during the day, and especially so when they have to go to bed.

We usually leave the crib's retractable fourth side down so Evie can climb in and out more easily, but it had been pulled up all the way. Williams hand hung between the slats, Evie was facing the other way, two or three stuffed animals had joined them, blankets of many shapes and sizes and colors were drawn across them, or sometimes not, and they had nabbed my big pillow from off my bed for the two of them to share.

While they slept I lowered the side of the crib down again, gently nudging William and jiggering the far corner so it would move. I sorted the blankets out, laid William in his own little bed, on his own red square pillow, and covered him with three or four of the blankets. I set the stuffed animals back in their blue box, retrieved my pillow for myself again (noticing some drool on one spot), and wrapped Evie up in another three or four blankets.

I stroked their hair, kissed them good-night again, and gently closed the door.

Jon

Pullern!

Evie is now completely half-way potty trained. Any time she needs to go Number 1 she suddenly and quickly exclaims "Avoll pullen!" which translated is "Ich will pullern" which loosely translated means "I need to pee."

Whoever is nearest then flies her to the bathroom (or sometimes she just hops or gallops) sets her upon her kiddie-seat throne and she puts her hand to her ear to make sure you're listening, and then lets it go.

When she's done, she hops down the little step we set in front of the toilet, and insists "I do myself!" She pulls up her pants, flushes the toilet, washes her hands, and returns to receive her daily dose of adulation for her great accomplishment. (William on the other hand makes a game of forgetting each step, so I have to remind him -- every time -- to flush and wash when he's done.)

Evie has even made it through naps staying dry. Not long after she wakes, sure enough, she exclaims, "Avoll pullen!" and bounces off again to the bathroom.

Philips

William can write his own name now, in all caps: WILLIAM. He can also write STOP and MAMA and PAPA (which once came out as MPMP) and EVIE (or sometimes EVEI).

A couple days ago he showed me a piece of paper where he had written HARRY POTTER -- no joke -- in all caps, complete with the jagged letters that he copied from the front of the DVD case. It was quite impressive.

Then a day later, he showed me that same paper with the jagged HARRY POTTER, but he had added PHILIPS. It took me a second, then I realized he had copied it off the front of the TV. I started laughing and congratulated him again on his achievement.

Evie

A while ago as I was writing the Milk Teeth post, a favorite bedtime scene played in my mind. I saved it as a draft but never returned to it. I think it might have started out of my realization that I needed to write more about Evie, that I've spent too much time writing just about William. I've forgotten where it was going, but I still like the image it creates. Here are those two lines I saved:

"I covered her with her blankets, plugged in her pacifier ("ga-ga" in her terms), and gently told her to roll over and close her eyes. She did, I caressed her back and hair a couple times, and turned to check back on William."