I know how to get a kid to sleep.

Reed came creeping downstairs after I put him to bed tonight. 
“What are you watching?”
“The vice-presidential candidate debate.”
“Can I watch?”
“Sure.”

I think he was asleep in under a minute. =)

p.s. earlier tonight as we started to brush his teeth, Reed started what he called a “language pattern”. One, Dos, Trois, Four… . That’s right: counting while rotating English, Spanish, French. 

Right now: Reed is sitting in the family room completely enthralled by a documentary on how aluminum is made. 

I can't make this stuff up.

Lying in bed this morning, staring at the ceiling fan and waiting on the sun to decide whether or not to rise, I hear a tiny, dulcet voice call from her crib:

“I dragon. I draaaaagon!”

Cutest. Dragon. Ever.

There was an interesting discussion today on 'talk of the nation' about Sarah Palin vis a vis the working mom and what that says about modern feminism. Seeing as how they only took call from women, I found the conversation a bit one sided. That, and it was about Palin, so of course there was that lingering barf taste in my mouth. Nonetheless, as a society we discuss motherhood as if it were some kind of factor in job performance, but we never do that with regard to fatherhood. 

Dear Rebekah,

I love that every night after bath, you ask to wear your shark jammies. I love that you say ‘tootcase’ when talking about a suitcase. I love that you say “I big boy!” when you do something grown up. Your high fives–and corresponding intense concentration on said act–are wonderful. I love that when I set you back on your little feet after swinging you around upside down, you gleefully shout “Another more! Faster!” I love that your refer to your dirty diapers as cow poopy, that you like to wrestle, that you’ll grab a book and just sit in my lap whenever you please. I love to watch you draw little tiny circles. 

I love you a whole bunch, and thank you.
Daddy

Reed’s taken up watching the NASA channel. No, seriously. His homework the other week was to write the word ‘blue’ and draw something blue. He drew the planet Neptune.

Today he wanted to talk about how the house was wired in parallel circuits, and looked at the effect of ionization of a balloon on the flow of water in our kitchen sink. That was all before heading out to the bus this morning.

Over dinner, using a new placemat that shows the United States, but only their borders, not names, Reed was able to name every state west of the Mississippi from memory, and about 38 of them overall (honestly, the Northeast is a friggin' trainwreck of states, right?). I had to flip the thing over to make sure he had Wisconsin and Minnesota correct.

I'm having to work to keep up with a five-year-old.

Monday I get the call from the school nurse: you need to come pick up your son and take him to the doctor. He’d cut his lip with scissors.

So I break a few traffic laws getting there to pick him up, envisioning a laceration from the inside of the lip out, calling the pediatrician and lining up an immediate appointment for a possible suture. He’s such a cute boy, I think to myself as I pass yet another car, why can’t he take care of his beautiful little face?

Amy’s at the school before me, but I’ve got the car seats. Swing by home to drop off little sister and then Reed and I are back on the highway to the doctor’s. He’s quiet in the back seat, all big eyes peering over a bag of ice pressed to his mouth. We get there and I carry him in and on back into an examination room. Our ped arrives and I get my first real good look at the cut. It’s both not as bad and worse than I thought. It isn’t a front to back laceration like I’d expected, so no stitches. Instead, he’d completely cut off that little bump of lip right beneath the center of the nose. Gone.

I cannot imagine how bad that hurt.

But the nurse said he didn’t cry. He did bleed, though, all over and down his favorite little shirt. Many thanks to Shout for getting that out (albeit with three days of soaking treatment). Now he’s working the big lip scab. I try not–and fail– to think about that scene from Spinal Tap where all the band mates have simultaneous herpes outbreaks on their lips.

This is very likely making me old.

On a funny upside, Rebekah has begun referring to her lady business as her “pahgina.” Which just makes Amy and me roll.