Major Monogram isn’t the only one who likes to go sans pants around here.
This guy, he’s thankfully mastered using the potty. What he hasn’t mastered, however, is getting his thunderwear and pants back on afterwards, so we often find him roaming the house naked from the waist down.
#3, he’s like a tornado, a cyclone of stinky boy-ness, a hurricane of love and spit and sweet manipulation. And despite my best efforts to the contrary, he is the Stereotypical Third Boy, which is to say largely unsupervised, indefatigable, well-mannered when it suits his fancy, a peacemaker and an instigator, funny and rude, sweet and dirty, a little potty-mouthed, a lot the life of the party. We’ve got our “hands full” with this one, which if I’ve heard once, I’ve heard, oh, say, 794 times. It’s like he knows that as the third child born so closely behind the first two, he’s got to do a little song-and-dance, to brandish ye old metaphorical top hat and cane if he wants to get noticed, particularly by the people who used to come around but don’t anymore because we have so many kids, and thus have only a vague knowledge of who he is in the first place. I’m sure they know the Eldest’s first and middle name, the Little Prince’s birthday month at the very least. With #3, it’s…oh, you had another one?
The other night, Jay and I stood in the doorway of the kitchen in the rental/pod, and watched as #3 threw his head back, tilted up a gatorade with his left hand so the bottom of the bottle fully faced the sky, and simultaneously jammed his other hand down his pants. It was funny but not; an odd, disturbing portent, a harrowing glimpse into an Animal House-ish future. Once when we were having dinner with Heather and her family, we were tidying up the kitchen as we saw Heather’s husband dart up off the sofa and scoot into the dining room where, apparently, #3 was literally swinging from the chandelier. He’d climbed up on the table and grabbed on, lifting both feet up for a little ride.
#3, he says things like “JINX ME A Soooo-Da!” rather than “Jinx…you owe me a soda!”, desperately trying to be like his big brothers. He feels the sting of being younger, knows they get to stay up “just a little bit later.” And the other day when I asked him if he had to use the potty since he couldn’t get his hand out of his pants, he responded with “No…I’m playing Old McDonald Had a Penis.” Classic.
I weaned #3 when he was two and some change, right before I ran the New York marathon, and he still has a slight affinity for my chest. (Who can blame him, right folks?) So when our contractor came over after Christmas to discuss gutters and ducts or some such house stuff, #3 proudly and unabashedly informed him that “My mommy used to feed me from her night-nights.” I was thanking my lucky stars that he didn’t say “nipples”(sorry to actually write that out here), because we’d been breaking down the finer points of anatomy that very morning, what with him spending so much time naked and all.
Hope everyone has a great weekend!
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