The kids, these days.

What on earth am I going to do when Neva starts talking and I have THREE sources of cute things said? How will I ever document even the half of it?

Let's start with Neva. Last night I pushed that girl around in the stroller, facing me, and I swear she smiled at me the entire time. Her Auntie Heather says she would like to nickname her "Baby Sunny," and I think it's a fitting title. She is light and sweetness and all things pleasant. I like to tell her that holding her restores my soul.

She is still exclusively nursing. She doesn't seem to find food all that compelling yet. She makes a face and spits it out. So, nursing it is. Lately she does her best to look around while nursing, while at the SAME time grabbing her own toes and using the hold to extend her leg straight out. We look like a circus act. She's rocking on all fours and likes rising on hands and feet as well. She's fat and soft and smells amazing. And she LOVES her brothers. They make her laugh most heartily, and she is quite tolerant of their wild behavior. She's had a toy to the face many times as a result of their impulsive affection ("I gave Neva a toy!") and yesterday I heard Barrett say to her, "Neva, Neva, Neva," very soothingly, and then heard her start to cry. I ran out of the closet to see his upper half hugging her, laying on top of her, smooshing her to the floor as he murmured, "Neva, Neva," to comfort her. "Barrett, no!"

Barrett.

Barrett is enchanting. And naughty. I am enraptured by his cuteness. Sometimes he talks to me and I just smile and gaze at him. And sometimes he defies me to my face and I freak out. But we're working on the naughtiness.

Lately, he hears something and he asks, "What's dat sound-noise?"

He also asks, "Why not?" And it never makes sense in context.

"Mom, where William?"
"He's downstairs."
"Why not?"

"Mom, dis apple?"
"Yep, that's an apple, bud."
"Why not?"

He says, "Oh, GWEAT," when something doesn't work out the way he wants it to. He LOVES to cuddle and be held.

The other night, stalling bedtime, he said, "Mom, I never... I never..." he waved his hands expressively. "I never... I never... I never..." I knew what he was trying to do; he was trying to imitate Will, who often says, "Mom, I never colored my Paw Patrol picture! Mom, I never watched Murray and Ovajita!" Barrett continued, "I never... I never..." He must have repeated himself twenty times as I waited there patiently. Finally, he said, "Mom, I never... Will funny."

The other day, having tried unsuccessfully to poop, he popped off the toilet and chirped, "S'not workin'!" He's a master at doing things himself, including jumping off the potty after he's gone. William still sits and hollers for my assistance, but Barrett just runs around commando until I see him and say, "Barrett, are you done going to the bathroom?!"

He likes to find tiny things and identify them as "wormies," whether they're rocks, ears of baby corn, or little dinosaurs. And he calls Bo, "Boey."

William.

He's such a boy, now. Such a big helper and pleasant fellow. The other night, as I was hustling them into bed, he impulsively threw his arms around me and sighed, "Mom, you're the best mom in the world."

As I kissed him good night, he said solemnly, "Mom, I was really good today. But if I feel poop in my butt, I will scream for you on the top of my lungs."

Last night, as I was frying some ham for dinner, he walked into the kitchen and said (for the first time ever, this picky kid), "That smells SO GOOD!" He hates bugs, hates to be dirty. At dinner the other night, he kept irritably banging his fist on the table. "What's the deal, Will?" I finally asked him.

"My room is all messy," he replied with a scowl.

Brian and I each wasted no time in offering a rejoinder. We nearly (verbally) tripped over each other explaining that the state of his room was his responsibility, and no one else's, and he had no place to be angry if it was messy.

[Truthfully, their room is fairly sparse and never really messy. There's a bookcase with board books, a barn with some animals, a bin of "stuffed pets," a small bin of alphabet blocks, and a few large trains and a wooden dump truck. If cluttered, it cleans up quickly.]

Toward the end of the meal, he did it again. Bang went his fist. "My room is messy, Mom." "Fine," I replied shortly. "Go clean it. Right now. Get all the toys and animals off the floor. Pick up everything on the floor and make your bed. Make Barrett's bed, too." (The beds, usually made, had gotten messed up again during naptime.) He looked at me blankly and his shoulders slumped. "I mean it, Will," I said. "If your room is messy, go clean it. And when you're done, I am going to inspect your work."

He climbed down from his chair and walked upstairs, surprisingly amenable. (Usually he likes to have Barrett for company if he has to travel to the second floor all by himself.) We heard him on the monitor, moving things around. After seven minutes or so he began the trek downstairs. "Mom, come inspect my work!"

"Did you make your bed and Barrett's bed?"

"Ope! No, I forgot!" Back he went for several more minutes, and then again, "Mom, I'm done, come inspect my work!"

I ran upstairs to find him standing proudly in a tidy room. He had done a great job, even picking up the Bible story book (that doesn't belong there) and putting it nice and straight on top of one of the clothing bins I had out to sort. I was so pleased to tell him that he had done a fabulous job. "That's called 'initiative,' buddy. Good work. Let's go tell daddy."