Super Heroes

Peter "Spiderman" Fitzpatrick 3 years old~2010

                Bobby "Superman" Fitzpatrick 5 years old~1975

Pete the Pirate

My youngest son Peter is three.

He daily tells me his name is Pete the Pirate.

He needs friends his own age.

An incident today makes that very apparent.

As I was walking my best friend and her sons out to their car, my THREE YEAR OLD son locked all the doors. AND closed the windows. And when I tried the door, I caught a glimpse of him through the window beside the door. He was jumping up and down with glee. Instead of coming when I called, he ran the other way, laughing all the way. 

His sisters were with me. Locked out. They found it hysterical that their baby brother had barricaded himself in the house. When they pounded on the door and pushed the door bell themselves, they laughed when he poked his angelic little head out the window and stuck his tongue out at them.

A THREE YEAR OLD.

Whatever happened to building blocks, coloring books, and playdoh--age appropriate fun for preschoolers?  I don't remember any of my other children having this level of frisky mischief. They didn't pull off pranks like Peter does. What is in the milk these days? And I even buy the kind with no hormones and stuff!

Peter and his shenanigans. Where does he get all his ideas?

When I finally used my "stern" voice and Peter opened the door, grinning impishly, I discovered the answer to these rhetorical questions. AIDAN was behind the door. The voice in his brother's head. Oz behind the curtain. Teaching my preschooler his tricks and tomfoolery! The mastermind behind all the mischief in my life.

Those two--double trouble!

That is it! Peter needs some playdates with children under the age of 8. Absolutely no sword playing, pirating, boxing, soldiering, wii-playing, mud flinging, slingshoting, tackling, wrestling, punching, rude-sound making, lizard catching, gun shooting, booger flicking, body slamming, top-of-his lungs storytelling, tickle torturing,  trampoline back-flipping, wedgie giving, incessant questioin asking...am I forgetting anything?

Anyone wanna have a playdate with charming Peter?

Wait! I blinked! Where did my sweet baby go?

Addendum: After typing this post, I decided attempt to remedy what was lost--my son's childhood. I put on a Miss Patty Cake dvd first. Fat chance! He wouldn't dance with the "Bubbling with Joy" song like all the other three year olds. I admit I was a bit freaked out by the weird man-rabbit too, but I needed to start someplace.The last movie he had watched was National Geographic and the last book I had read was a chapter from Apologia on reptiles. When I asked him to choose a picture book from his shelf for me to read to him, Peter chose a DK book on Battle. And he brought a flashlight. Peter insisted on building a fort while we read so it would be "scurry" (Peter for: "scary").  I think it is a losing battle. He is the youngest kid trying keep up with his big brothers. And I guess I need to just trust God that He knew what He was doing when He put Peter in this family! :) So we are off to make paper airplane gliders--forget the playdoh!

Weird Picture Wednesday

This isn't going to be an on-going post. So don't get excited . But I couldn't resist the alliteration. And this blog is called "of weirdos and eccentrics". Which, by the way, I will someday explain. It really does have an interesting explanation. Or a weird one. Whichever adjective you prefer.

Anyhow, here is my weird picture. You know what they say: "a picture is worth a thousand words"? Well, I often times (okay, mostly always) talk too much, trying to convince or cajole or make someone chuckle. So in a exercise of learning to talk less and listen more, I offer this photo. Which really explains a lot about my life. Without the thousand words.

Note: No Aidans were harmed in the taking of this photo. He did eventually escape from his self-inflicted  entrapment. All by himself. Following my wise momma's advice: "YOU got yourself into that mess, YOU get yourself out!"

Gumbo

I love spicy food.

I love eating.

I love hanging out with fun friends.

This Saturday we had an impromptu "Part-y!" with our friends the Nelsons. It started out innocent, mild and simple--a last minute get together.

But then Jay showed up with bags and bags of groceries.

He wanted to make us "soul food". Now I didn't exactly know what that meant when I agreed. But anything that has the word food in it--I'm game! And if it nourishes my soul while I am chewing--so be it.

Did I mention that one of the bags of food included Alaskan King Crab legs?

So the menfolk chopped and seasoned and spiced and created. Okay, I include Bob here because he was in the kitchen with his buddy afterall. Not that he has ever eaten seafood gumbo or soul food before.

This masterpiece of chicken legs and bones, links of sausage, bags of shrimp, and other mysterious ingredients (I did mention the many large legs of crab didn't I?) simmered and stewed for hours. Jay forbid snacking and appetizers. We needed to be huuuuuungry to truly enjoy.

The smells! Oh the wonderful olfactory pleasures that tempted and taunted and tantalized. For hours.

He had his wish. We were hungry.

When we finally sat down to this mouth-wateringly, smell-sensation soup ladled over rice with prickly crab legs poking out of our overstuffed bowls--it was quiet. Except for the moaning and humming and outbursts of ectasy.

At one point Kady had to warn me to knock it off. She said I was frightening her.

"OH MY! OOOOOHHHHH!" loudly interjected in between mouthfuls.

"WHAT?!?! What's the matter?" her concerned query.

It took her a while to figure out that I am an expressive eater. Dramatic diner? Theatrical taster? Whatever. I enjoy my food. I already told you that.

I have never tasted anything so delicious and soul-satisfying.

I can't even tell you about the cornbread right now. It wouldn't be fair. You would only think I am embellishing.

"Bless the Lord, O my soul!"  Thank you Jesus. For friends. For soul food.

PS- I try to have fine manners (well, except for when I am moaning at the dinner table and scaring guests) so I sent the leftovers home with the Nelsons. I knew it was the polite thing to do. I remembered how Jay likes to eat leftovers for days straight. And he had made it afterall, and paid for it. And shared a large portion of it with us. Seven of us with mounds of shells and unbuttoned pants to prove it. It was the right thing to do. But I regretted it the moment I woke up the next morning. With the pungent smells settled over the house and my first breath was GUMBO. Big mistake! Big mistake!

Snowy Day

I have a crummy camera. I am not photographer (obviously!). I forget to take pictures (often!).

But I got these great (though blurry!) photos.

Lake Arrowhead with the Nelson Family

 February 2010

And NO! Kady, I won't be sharing the toilet incident here.

That story will remain our little secret! :)

I don't care if I tell the story wrong when I am old!

A Nutcracker Photo Collage

A Proud Night For A Proud Momma!

And A Dream Come True For Two Sisters!

The Truth About Nutcracker

Reilly (Clara)

Kate (Party Girl & Angel)

December 2009

(Click on any image to see it enlarged)

Love Stinks

For Valentine's Day, I like to write Love Letters to my kids. I won't share them here. Very sappy and sentimental--they might make you blush. But I will share a part of one here. And it won't make you blush. It might make you gag. You have been warned.

Here is a portion of Peter's February 14, 2010 love note from me, his momma:

"Sweet boy, I love it when you crawl into our bed in the early morning and stroke my face with your little hands. It makes me feel beautiful."

During naptime the very same day, I was snuggled up next to my boy. Savoring the moment. Enjoying how perfectly his head fits into that space under my chin. When he reached up to caress my face, I suddenly remembered something else he does that needs to be memorialized here. Those very hands that I love have discovered certain places, smelly places. Places that are the exact size of three-year-old fingers. And those stinky fingers where connected to the little hands that were sweetly stroking my face.

Note to Self: More thorough supervision required for wipe, whirl and wash stage after toilet routines for said three-year-old.