The Digestive System, As Explained to a Three Year Old

Milo: I drink the water and it goes into my belly, and then where does it go next?

Me: It gets sent to different parts of your body, and then you pee it out.

Milo: [stunned silence]

Me: Really.

Milo: You PEE IT OUT?

Me: Yes.

Milo: I want to go pee right now and see the water come out.

Me: Well it's just going to look like pee. It won't look like water.

Milo: You drink the water and then you pee it out.

Me: Yes.

Milo: And you pee out snack too.

Housekeeping at 36 Months

Dear Milo,
A few weeks ago you turned three years old - you're such a big boy. You wake up in the morning now and get dressed all by yourself. The first week or so that you did this you would come into our room, all proud and glowing, with your shirt on inside out and your pants on backwards. Also there was the day you omitted underwear. And sometimes you show up in the same outfit all week -- I guess your thought process is, hey, this worked yesterday! To counter this problem I have started putting your clothing in the laundry basket more frequently. You also insist on wearing only "fluffy" pants. You also like everyone else to be in "fluffy" pants, for reasons I don't fully understand. Sometimes in order to get you to wear something other than sweatpants I try to convince you that your jeans are "fluffy." You buy it about 20 percent of the time.

You continue to be an endless stream of questions. Why is it night now? When will it be day? Why are there two Matthews in your class? Why not five Matthews? Why do different toilets make different flushing noises? Why do you have to eat breakfast when you wake up? Why can't you have Snack instead? Why do the leaves fall off the trees? Why don't I want to hang up every single piece of artwork you come home from school with? Why can't we listen to "Ob La Di Ob La Da" 47 times in a row?

You continue to have two main interests: music and trains. You still have some interest in cleaning, but it pales in comparison to trains and music. Recently you've started to become interested in puzzles and games, too, which is a lot of fun because it's something we can do together. You like to find all the nails and forklifts and cement in your Bob the Builder book, and this weekend you put together your farm puzzle about 15 times. We've also started playing Concentration, although we call it Flip Flop in honor of Charlie and Lola, and we play a sort of modified version where we just turn the cards over and try to find the matching pictures, but still, you're into it.

What you're not into is eating. Not to say that you don't like food, because you do. You demanded more baby octopus the other night when we had sushi, and munched away contentedly on its head; you devoured three slices of pig knuckle at a Chinese restaurant last week; and you will eat your weight in shrimp and calamari. But unless we're at a restaurant or something weird is being served, you tend to take a few bites of food and declare yourself done, although what you're really declaring yourself is bored, and ready to move on to the next activity.

So we've had to start insisting you take x number of bites before you leave the table. This has now turned into a sort of math game for you, where you take a couple of bites and then try to calculate how many bites you have left. Sometimes I just say, "finish half the sandwich" or whatever, and you will endlessly reply "How many bites" until I calculate how many bites are potentially in half a sandwich. You do like numbers, though. When we went to the farmers market last month you lined up and counted 19 pumpkins. But you don't always get it right. The other night I said you had 15 more minutes to play until it was time to get ready for bed."

"How about ten minutes," you said.

"Um, okay," I replied.

But overall, you are a joy and a pleasure. You charm everyone you meet -- all the kids in the 4's class at school yell hi to you by name, even though you don't know their names. You charmed a police officer into letting you into the engine car of an Amtrak train on your birthday. You have not one iota of shyness, and will talk to anyone anywhere anytime. I still don't get it, but it's fun to watch.

I love you, little chicken,
Mama

Birthday Boy

Click through for more pictures from the Halloween Extravaganza/Birthday Bash.

Milo Becomes A Teenager Early

Housekeeping at 35 Months

Oh, my goodness, where to begin? Maybe here:



You've been tough the last few weeks, little chicken. You had a bad cold, were getting two new molars, and took the opportunity to throw a couple of knock-down drag-out bang-your-fists-on-the-floor tantrums. You said no to everything. You were waking up crying several times a night, refusing to nap, screaming about only eating tortellini and throwing your toys. And then, just as quickly as it came, that phase ended and left you sweeter and more enjoyable than ever. You were settling down for your nap the other day when I sneezed on the other side of the wall and you yelled, "Bless you, Mama!" You turned to me the other day and, apropos of nothing said, "Mama, I love you so much."

A few weeks ago you insisted that you did not want a little sister under any circumstances. You lobbied for an older brother. When we pointed out that an older brother would probably want to play with your trains you changed your mind and said, "Actually, I want it to just be me and Mama and Dad." And then, magically, about a week ago you began talking about the fun things you could do with your little sister. You picked out a few baby toys in the playroom and said, "This would be a good toy for the little sister."

Sometimes you're all talk, all bravado and not much else. We had a small party this weekend, where one of the guests was a 1 1/2 year old girl named Sophie. Before the party you said you weren't going to share any of your toys with Sophie. We asked you to pick out a few toys to share and you refused. And then, when she arrived, you wouldn't leave her side. You grabbed her hand and wanted to show her all your toys and how to play with them. You wanted her to play with you in the sandbox, and in the school bus, and at the sink. In fact, you wouldn't leave her alone.

You started school last month, and so far we haven't gotten any reports that you hit anyone, or locked yourself in the bathroom, or flushed crayons down the toilet. The first day of school I was the one who cried, not you. You just said, "Bye, Mama, I'll see you later," and that was that. All around you kids screamed themselves blue, but you just marched off to find the trains.

"Do some kids cry when they get dropped off at school?" I asked you once.

"Yes," you said.

"Why do you think they're crying?" I asked.

"I don't know," you said, as though you couldn't even begin to fathom what there could be to cry about.

A few weeks later, when we actually totally forgot you at school, by the time I finally got to the school to pick you up you were just sitting there playing with some toy cars. "What happened?" you asked, understandably, but that was it. I would have been in tears. Even if I'd been 15. But not you -- you take everything in stride.

We've got some big changes coming, so let's hope you continue to be just as easy going as you are now.

Love,
Mama