So, Imp #2 was being particularly cute today. I said to him, "Imp #2, why are you so darned cute?"

And he says, "Because God made me cute."

Which made him all the cuter.

Anatomy Lesson

SO, I'm a chick. But you all knew that.

I'm a chick who cannot pee standing up. There are many Freudian comments to be made about the fact that I sincerely wish I could pee standing up. I am actually quite happy about the fact that I am female . . . I generally don't wish that I had the specific anatomy that would make peeing while standing up possible for me . . . nor do I wish I had the many other things that make a man a man. I like lipstick. I like skirts. I like to think of myself as a Twiggy version of a pinup girl. Okay, maybe not. But I definitely don't want to be a man.

I just want to be able to pee standing up.

Why?

Well, this morning, I had to take the two wee imps in my car while I dropped of Kindergarten imp at the bus stop and wait with him. That's when he started to do the dance.

The potty dance.

I knew he would never be able to wait the 45 minute bus ride to pee. So, I motioned him back over the car. Quickly taking inventory of my options, I saw a water bottle rolling on the floorboard. Now, I'm usually a plastic reusable cup kind of water drinker, but for some reason I must have been extra thirsty one day when I was out and about and bought a bottle and hadn't been able to throw it in the recycling bin.

"Pee into this bottle," I instructed. And in the relative privacy of the car, he was able to whip it out, relieve himself, and get back in time for the bus all with relative ease. What a lifesaver.

Which started me thinking -- What in the hell am I going to do when Imp #3 is doing the potty dance when she starts kindergarten and I'm waiting with her at the bus stop? So, my mission between now and then is to figure out how to pee standing up. Then, I will pass the wisdom onto her.

Let the anatomy lesson conclude . . .

Measure twice, knit once

I should know better.

I should know never, ever, EVER to rely on measurements that are not lain out flat on a table.

I should know that if I measure my knitting piece, get all excited that I have only 1 inch to go, knit that inch, and then lay the piece flat for a proper measurement, I will be disappointed.

And that's because the first measurement was off by three inches and I really have two more inches to knit.

Stupid ruler.

Freeing

I just recently realized that I don't have to post every day.

The thought that I did was oppressive and has resulted in an 8-month gap since my last post.

Where in the hell did that time go, anyway?

So, here's to more frequent, but no-pressure blogging.

Liberation.

Out of the mouths of babes

So, I recently learned some terrible news. A friend from High School lost her newborn son. I am overwhelmed with sadness for her.

The other night, during a conversation about other things, I mentioned to my 4-1/2 year old son that I was very sad that my friend's baby died. After a pause, Leo ardently said, "Momma, babies are supposed to get bigger, turn into grown ups, and THEN die. Babies aren't supposed to die. That's not fair."

I was really surprised at the maturity of his response. So, I said, "Well, maybe God just wanted Baby Will to come and live with him right away."

He shook his head at me: "No, Momma. God is sad when babies die."

Blew me away.

Happiness and equality for all

So, I cannot make the same claim as Keith Olbermann (see his comments). I do have family and close friends who could be affected by a law such as California's Proposition 8. A couple of knitting friends put this on their blogs. I decided to put it on mine as well so that we can continue to spread Olbermann's message. Spread happiness, folks. And if you don't believe in gay marriage, don't have one.

Counting tub rings

So, I have noticed a direct correlation between the number of children I have and the number of times in a month I bathe them. When Imp #1 was an infant -- you know, the kind of child that really doesn't do anything to get dirty except the occasional blow-out -- I would bathe him at least every other day. When he became a toddler and frequently got grimy, particularly in the summer months, I'd bathe him every day.

Then I had Imp #2. And while the two of them were still dunked in the tub on a fairly regular basis, it was, for sure, less frequent. This was in part due to #2's sensitive skin, but more because it was hard to bathe them together given #1's wild ways.

Bathing became even less frequent when I became pregnant with Imp #3. In fact, this past summer, there were often nights when I would look at the boys, see the grime on their little legs and arms, think about how difficult it would be to bend over my pregnant belly to wash them in the tub. So, if I was feeling ambitious, I would seat them on the sink and sponge bathe their hands, face, and feet only. Or fill up the kiddie pool in the back yard and let them wade around in it, calling it "good enough."

Enter #3. Now these kids are lucky to be bathed twice a month. Seriously. In fact, I am a little ashamed to admit it, but I'm pretty sure I can still count on one hand the number of times #3 has had a bath at home, and she was 4 months yesterday.

My mom is kind of picky, so I figure if they smelled or something, she'd tell me. And if #1 was truly ratty looking, his little old lady Russian preschool teacher would give me a disapproving look as she asked if #1 was familiar with soap and water.

I know it sounds terrible, but its true. And the kids don't seem the worse for the wear. I mean, we still wash hands before eating and after potty-ing. I still wipe diaper areas. I still have the 4-year-old clean his "privates" with a diaper wipe before putting on his Spiderman undies in the morning. I still trim nails and wipe faces after eating. I just don't give them a lot, er . . . many . . . er . . . any(?!?!) full-fledged baths.

I've decided that I can then use the tub rings to figure out how old they are.