What There's Time For

{nerdzy thurzdy} haiku

To formally prove
what seems oh so obvious
can be oh so hard.

Oh, the Wonderful Things Mr. Pants Can Do!

(with apologies to the immortal Dr. Seuss, author of one of Shmoogie's current favorites, Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?)

Oh, the wonderful things

Mr. Pants can do!

He can make breakfast, 

he can spread stuff too!

 

He can eat like a monster.

Mr. Pants can chomp!

Mr. Pants can do it!

What shall we do?

 

He can dress his own self,

Shirt, shoes, pants, socks...

But only when he wants to, 

Never if not!

 

He can dress like Buzz Lightyear...

ZOOMA ZOOMA ZOOMA ZOOM!

He can dress his baby sister

if she doesn't leave the room!

 

Mr. Pants can do it!

What shall we do?

 

He can climb on the counter

to get a piece of bread

or a sticker or some chocolate or a bottle of pills...

You think he can't reach it?  I tell you, he will!

 

He can seem like an angel.

He can hug.

He can kiss.

He can bop his baby sister on the head, 

Like THIS!

 

HO HO HO!

Mr. Pants is a master.

HA HA HA!

Mr. Pants makes laughter!

He makes chuckles

HAR HAR HAR HAR

with a sparkle in his eye

just like a dancing star!

 

Mr. Pants can do laundry,

very quiet, very sly,

...til the washer starts spinning

and his mom wonders why.

 

Maybe he can do more,

Betcha he'll try!

 

Oh, the wonderful things Mr. Pants can do!

(Just wait 'til Shmoogie tries to do them, too.)

Mr. Pants can do it!

What shall we do?

 

***

Mr. Pants has been waking up early, reading quietly in his room until his exhausted parents fall helplessly back asleep, and then creeping upstairs.  There has been self-served cereal (with milk!), self-retrieved (from a high cabinet) Nutella self-spread on bread (also self-retrieved from a *different* high shelf), and self-retrieved chocolate (I'm sure you realize that's not kept at ground level).  On Wednesday, he climbed up to get the bottle of kids' fish-oil supplements and ate two weeks worth (and attempted to hide the evidence - all but one of the wrappers made it into the trash).  They're not toxic (thus the lack of child-lock lid), just a tummy-ache-inducing dose of fish oil and dietary fiber.

This morning, he found his summer sand toys and washed them in the sink "to get the sand off" (and put them to dry on the shelf ABOVE the sink, exactly like I do with toys I've washed after confiscating them for being smeared in peanut butter or drawn on or what have you), then climbed on the counter to stand on tippy toes (I assume) to get his Christmas Santa mug from on TOP of the UPPER cabinets, assembled its straws and valves, filled it with water and then finally carried it down to wake me up, very proud of himself, although starting to shiver in his soaked pajamas.

I took the beloved mug away (there were tears) and told him for the millionth time that he could get hurt climbing up like that.

"But I didn't get hurt!  See?"

But, I told him, your Daddy once fell off a counter when he was little like you (actually, much littler, but that's not the point) and was hurt very badly.  

Mr. Pants looked at me gravely, then asked, "What was he trying to reach?"

I Woke Up Thinking About a Poem

I wrote a poem I'm rather fond of back when Mr. BiggerNowPants was teething like crazy.  For some reason, it was on my mind this morning and I figured that since I really need to be getting ready for hosting Thanksgiving tomorrow (!) (even though when Mr. Right blithely picked a towel up off the bathroom floor yesterday to dry himself with after a shower (who DOES that???) and I looked at him, totally appalled, he said, "It's a vote of confidence!  Our floors are so clean!" which, well, I'm giving him a serious benefit of the doubt that there was no hint of sarcasm there...) I figured I'll go off and clean and you can read my poem.  :)  Have a great holiday tomorrow if you're celebrating (I'm planning to post a thankful thought or two, but I don't know how many of you will be reading).  We've made pie crust already, so that should work out better than last year!

 
Read with a joyful rhythm and a true love of diction!

Six Months Old 

My truly drooly boy wears blue
in his eyes,
which are murking milkily maybe
meltingly maybe
into brown...

Truly drooly slick spit slippy,
smitten with all things knobby and knotty,
locked in grueling grumbly chomping.

Trewely drewely,
slimy smiley,
bubbles in abundance.
Frothing, coughing, smicking, smacking,
working at nothing but all.