Food for thought

It seems that for the past few months, trips to restaurants have been really hit or miss for us. Sometimes it's Biscuit, sometimes it's not. We've just had very odd luck with service, food and restaurant behavior.

Luckily, the issues have come one at a time.

During our lunch hour one day, Jeff and I went to a hamburger place where we sat and stared at (and smelled!) the previous customers' food for about 15 minutes. The server passed us several times and even cleared a table then took orders from a table of customers who came in after us. Running out of time and patience, Jeff and I got up to leave. Then the server came over and was all apologetic. Too late, sister. We went next door and got tasty food, quite quickly.

On another outing, we went to a place that usually has great food. Jeff's parents were here, and we took them to a steakhouse that we go to several times a year. I was excited about going but was really disappointed by our food. It was okay, but it came nowhere near meeting the standards we usually hold for that particular place. Plus, they got my order wrong, which certainly didn't help the situation.

Despite these experiences, I still enjoy eating out and thought it would be a good option for tonight.

We had a big-deal sporting event in town this past week, so Jeff had to work seven 12-hour days in a row. Today (Day 8) was a regular 8-hour day, so I thought it would be nice for the three of us to have dinner out together. I picked somewhere I thought was family-friendly and told Jeff to meet us there after I picked up Biscuit from day care.

Biscuit and I got to the restaurant before Jeff, and I asked for a table for two and a high chair. I'm not sure why, but when the hostess rounded the corner with the high chair, Biscuit went nuts with excitement, "HIGH CHAIR, HIGH CHAIR, HIGH CHAIR!!!!" It was like he had never seen one before.

Our server came over, and the first thing he did was lay down a couple of packs of crackers in front of Biscuit. Score! Then he asked what we'd like to drink. I told him I'd like tea, I got water for Jeff and before I could tell him what Biscuit wanted, the server squatted down to Biscuit's level and said, "What would you like to drink?" "TEA!!!" Biscuit yelled to him. The server looked at me, I guess for my approval, and I gave him the nod that it was okay.

The server brought our drinks back and asked if I wanted to wait before I ordered our food. I told him yes, but Biscuit piped up and said, "I need fench fies, pease." The server and I laughed, and I said, "I'm sorry, but I guess he knows what he wants."

Jeff arrived and was looking at the menu when the server walked up and gave Biscuit a plate with a handful of fries on it. It was so nice. I thanked him, and he said he has four grandchildren who call him Papa and get whatever they want from him, too.

Biscuit gave him the sweetest smile and said, "Thank you, Papa," and the server seemed to get a kick out of that.

The food was good, and the server kept checking on us. It was just a nice restaurant experience.

There was an older woman sitting alone at the table behind us. As she got up to leave, she turned around and looked at Biscuit. Biscuit had been talking up a storm during dinner, describing what he was eating, making car noises with his little race cars, and just generally talking Jeff's ear off since he hasn't seen him this week. At one point, Biscuit wanted to dip a french fry into the blue cheese dressing Jeff had for his salad. "Too spicy, Dad," Biscuit said.

Anyway, the woman said, "I just wanted to see who was doing all that talking during my dinner." At first, I couldn't tell if she was serious or joking. Then she smiled. "I heard him telling the server exactly what he wanted. I like a man who knows what he wants."

"You picked the right man, then," I said to her.

"And how could he resist a beautiful, young woman like me?" she said, laughing.

My dinner was good, but I wanted something sweet afterward, so we went through a close-by drive-through and got a little chocolate milkshake. I let Jeff taste it, then Biscuit wanted a taste. He took a sip and said, "Mmmm, Mama. Good."

We got home, went inside and got our coats and shoes off. Then I felt a little tug on my pants leg. "Mama. Mama," Biscuit said.

"What, Baby?" I asked.

"I need more ice cream tea," Biscuit said.

At first I didn't understand. "What in the world is ice cream tea?" I was thinking.

Then it occurred to me that when he sees me with a takeout cup, it usually has tea in it. So he put the two together and came up with "ice cream tea." So to reward his creative thinking, I did indeed give him another sip of my ice cream tea.

Maybe our run of bad restaurant experiences has come to an end. I hope so.

Learning, learning, learning

Biscuit is tripping me out this afternoon.

After a morning full of drama, Biscuit took a long nap and seems to be in a better mood.

We just read a book where he named (with no help) a volcano, a brontosaurus, a T-Rex and a pterodactyl.

Then he picked up a book about shapes, and upon seeing an orange oval, he said, "Orange oval. I got 'nother oval." Then he went to his toy bucket, picked up a red football, brought it over to me and said, "Red oval, Mama."

He opened a basket of plastic animals he has and pulled out a little, green frog.

"Look, Mama, a tree fwog," Biscuit said.

"Cool, a frog," I said.

"NO, Mama. A TREE fwog." Well, excuse me, Mr. Smarty Pants.

A morning of drama has slid into an evening of amazement at how much a kid can learn in just 2 years.

Whew!

There aren't words to describe the feeling I just recovered from ... a feeling I'd really like to never experience again.

I walked back into my bedroom from a quick bathroom trip and found Biscuit holding his pacifier saying, "It boken, Mama. It boken."

Once I got close enough to see it, my heart sank. Biscuit was holding his pacifier and half of the nipple part of it was torn off and was nowhere to be found.

Let me just pause and say ... HOLY CRAP!!!!!

"Biscuit, where is the other part of your pacifier?" I asked frantically.

"In my mouf," he said.

"WHAT?!?!?" is what I said, but what I was thinking was "HOLY CRAP!!!!!"

"Did you swallow it? Did you eat it? Is it in your mouth? Is it in your tummy?" I was trying to ask him any question that might get the answer I wanted. And he was just crawling around on the bed as if nothing was wrong.

He seemed fine. He wasn't choking. But still, did he swallow it? What would a hunk of silicone do to a little boy's belly? Could it cause a blockage? Could it get stuck somewhere? How would they get it out? OH GOD, I NEED TO TAKE HIM TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!!!! Of all the nights for Jeff to be working!

I turned to go get my shoes and, luckily I was barefoot, I stepped on the broken piece of silicone nipple.

I'd love to say that I let out a big sigh of relief, but to be truthful, that's when the overwhelming fear kicked in. I know we'll probably have a thousand close calls of one kind or another as Biscuit grows up. And I know that I can't dwell on "what could've been," but jeezy pete that was scary. What if he HAD swallowed it?!?

It's 10:46 right now, and Biscuit is nowhere near sleep. I think some of my adrenaline must've seeped into him as I was hugging him tight. But you know what? I don't care if he's up until 2 a.m. I'm just glad he's okay.

Here is the "boken" pacifier.

Ouf of the mouth of my babe + 1

This always happens. I write a post about the funny things Biscuit is saying, then the very next day, I remember one I didn't include.

Biscuit is very independent these days. He likes to do things his own way and in his own time. (The last part of that tries my patience every now and again.)

Biscuit was in the bathtub this evening, and I scooped up water in his pelican pitcher to get his hair wet.

"No, Mama," he said. "I do it my byself." (instead of by myself)

Lately, we hear "my byself" a lot. Some things we can let him do by himself, and obviously, there are some things we can't. And needless to say, our little man doesn't like it when we say "no."

You know, typing that, I realize that "no" is one of his favorite words, but it's the word he hates most to hear from us. Ah, toddlerhood.

Out of the mouth of my babe

Some funny things Biscuit is saying right now:

Pancake sauce: Biscuit is fascinated by sauces. My brother taught him to dip his fries in ketchup, so now he wants sauce for lot of other foods, too. I cook pancakes on some weekend mornings and freeze the leftovers for during-the-week breakfast. In the past, I've given him plain pancakes because the few times he's had syrup, it's just been overwhelmingly messy. But lately, he's been doing so well with his fork, I thought I'd let him try his pancakes with syrup. I made pancakes this past Saturday morning, and he loved the syrup. And we're spoiling him already because the syrup we have is from people my in-laws know who make it themselves. It's real maple syrup. None of that maple-flavored-topping-product.

Late Sunday morning after Jeff's parents left, Biscuit grabbed Jeff's hand and pulled him into the kitchen. "Want some, Dad," Biscuit said to Jeff.

"Want some what?" Jeff asked.

"Want some sauce, Dad," Biscuit said while pointing at the refrigerator.

Jeff opened the fridge door, and Biscuit pointed right at the jug of syrup. "What's that?" Jeff asked.

"Pancake sauce," Biscuit said.

Hoowah: I don't know if Biscuit has been watching Pacino or if he's practicing his Marine yells, but lately, every time he does something even remotely strenuous, he yells out, "HOO-WAH!"

"Biscuit, can you pick up your cars?" I'll ask him.

One by one, he'll drop the cars in the box and yell, "HOO-WAH!"

"Want go home": Biscuit has a book that talks about some lady bugs who are trying to find their way back home. So every once in a while, out of the blue, he'll say, "Want go back home, Mama," like the ladybugs in the book do. And at the time he says it, he'll be sitting on the couch in our living room. "You ARE home," I'll say to him, but that doesn't fly. "No, Mom, want go back home," he'll say. I tried to explain it to him a few times, but at this point, I usually just say, "Okay, baby. We'll go back home." And that usually does the trick.

"I funny": When Biscuit does something that makes us laugh, we tell him he's funny. I guess he's heard us say it enough so that now, when he say something that makes us laugh, before we can say anything, he says, "I funny, Mama. I funny."

"Be right back": Whenever Biscuit leaves the room, he says, "Be right back." Sometimes he comes back, sometimes you have to track him down to find out what he's up to.

My best fend: The object of this comment changes from day to day, but Biscuit will readily say, "I wuv you, Mama. Mama is Giffin best fend." And other than Jeff, I can't think of a better friend to have.

Bye-bye Grandma and Grandpa

Biscuit's grandparents went back to the snowy North on Sunday. We tried to talk them into staying longer, especially because they were going home to -9 degree temperatures. Yes, you read that right ... MINUS NINE DEGREES!!!!

Monday morning, I went up to get Biscuit, and I asked, "Do you want to eat some breakfast?"

"No, want pay with Ganma and Gampa," Biscuit said.

"They went home, baby. They're not here anymore," I told him.

"No, mom. Want pay Ganma and Gampa," he said.

"They went back home. They aren't here anymore," I told him.

"WaaaaAAAAAAAA!!!!! WANT GANMA, GAMPA!!!" he wailed.

"Hey, would you like some pancakes for breakfast?" I asked him.

"Oooo. Pancakes. Pancakes, Mama," he said.

I guess he has his priorities.

Rolling right along

My parents are spontaneous people. Sometimes they would come home from work Friday evening, and we'd throw some stuff in a bag and take a road trip. I guess that's why I have that streak in me, too.

But I've found that when there's a little person involved, spontaneity can sometimes throw a monkey wrench in things. If you mess up their schedule and surroundings too much, it tends to show up in one way or another.

Today, Biscuit was more relaxed and more himself than I've seen in about a week or so.

My in-laws come down South to spend January with us every year. We love having them here, especially Biscuit. My father-in-law usually does house projects for us while he's here. And as much as I appreciate getting them done, this year, I can tell that it had an affect on Biscuit.

I have a great new floor in my kitchen. I also have new shelves in my kitchen storage closet. I think it was supposed to be a coat closet, but it's an odd-shaped little space that is wedged under the stairs. And since it was in the kitchen, I claimed it as my kitchen storage space.

Anyway, the day my father-in-law was building the shelves, all the stuff I have in that closet was scattered across the kitchen and into the dining room -- canisters of flour, sugar, etc., appliances that I don't use every day, graduated and shaped cake pans, serving platters ... all of that kind of stuff.

Then immediately after finishing that, my father-in-law started putting down a new floor in my kitchen. We've been in our house for 7 1/2 years, and from the day we moved in, I have wanted different flooring in the kitchen. So my father-in-law was making that happen.

The bad part was that the stove, kitchen table and some other stuff was crammed into the dining room. The refrigerator was wedged between the kitchen and our bedroom. So the area of the house where Biscuit eats and spends a good bit of time was in complete disarray. The project also meant we were eating dinner out for about a week.

And just for good measure, Jeff worked night shifts Monday and Tuesday. Then Biscuit and I saw a movie with a friend of mine Wednesday (more on that to come soon). I had my weekly girls' dinner Thursday, which meant I wasn't home until late. Jeff got stuck late at work Friday. We had company all day Saturday. And my in-laws went home this morning.

That's a lot for a little guy to handle in a couple of weeks.

I think he did a great job dealing with everything. There were only a few meltdowns and occasional whining. But for the most part, he just rolled with the punches.

Here's a picture of Biscuit "helping" Grandpa get the fridge put back into place. You can also see a tiny bit of my new floor.

Hola, y'all.

When Biscuit moved up into the 2-year-old class at day care, the teachers said they'd be teaching him some Spanish. But I didn't think to ask when the lessons would start.

One morning, Biscuit was standing in our bathroom when he looked in the mirror and said, "Ye-oh shirt, bown pants." I said, "Yep. You have a yellow shirt and brown pants. Good job with your colors, little man."

When we got to day care that morning, I told his teacher that he was doing well with his colors and that he had told me when we dressed him the color of his pants and shirt.

"What color is your shirt?" I asked Biscuit in front of his teacher.

"Ye-oh," he said.

Then he teacher said, "Or ...?"

"Amarillo," Biscuit said. That's Spanish for yellow.

"My kid is bilingual and nobody told me!" I teased his teacher.

She said, "I told you we were going to teach him Spanish." But I just didn't know when it would start.

They're working on colors, body parts and numbers.

As a matter of fact, here's how he counted for us this afternoon:1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 13, 16, 17, diez (10 in Spanish)

I took Spanish in college, but I don't remember a whole lot. I guess I need to brush up, lest the boy call me something I can't understand!

Boo-boo

A post from The Daddy Man:

I had my annual physical a couple of days ago, and it included having blood taken and getting a flu shot. Biscuit noticed the bandage on my arm, and the following conversation took place.

Biscuit: “Boo-boo, Dad?”

Me: “Yep. Got a boo-boo.”

Biscuit: “Hut, Dad?”

Me: “Yep. It hurts. But that’s okay. You don’t have a boo-boo.”

Biscuit: “No. Don’t have boo-boo.”

Me: “You’re lucky.”

Biscuit: “Yeah. No boo-boo. I lucky.”


Then spent the rest of the night randomly saying, “I lucky, Dad. I lucky.”

I guess it carried over into the next day, too, because the next morning, we had the following conversation.

Biscuit: “I lucky, Dad.”

Me: “Yeah. You’re lucky.”

Biscuit: “Got lucky foot, Dad.”

Me: “You do? That’s cool.”

Biscuit: “Got other lucky foot, too, Dad.”


Then the luck turned back my way, and Biscuit had to go to day care.

Noises from everywhere

Warning: If you are offended by the following words, you might want to stop reading now ... boogers, poop and poot.

These are the words and/or noises that as of recently our Biscuit baby says or does with no hesitations.

Now, I realize that all of these things are perfectly normal bodily functions. But I know that there are stigmas, manners and socially accepted behaviors attached to them, too.

But not for a 2-year-old.

If he has boogers, he will tell you loud and clear, no matter where you are, no matter who's around: "Got boogers, Mama." I usually whip out a tissue and take care of business, but I'll go ahead and tell you with no embarrassment that I won't hesitate to stick my finger in his nose, either. And yes, I've washed his face with spit, too. Just like my Mama did and her Mama did and her Mama did.

Biscuit announcing he has poop is a little more disturbing. Imagine hearing in the middle of a restaurant, "GOT POOP, MAMA. GOT POOP! POOP IN PANTS, MOM." Other parents probably understand. Most of them have probably been there. But of all the things my kid could yell in a restaurant, "got poop" isn't exactly at the top of my favorites list.

And the most frustrating thing about dealing with poop is that there are so, so many restaurants and stores that don't have changing tables in the bathroom. So you have to take the kid to the car and change the diaper there. And sometimes it's cold. And sometimes it's raining. And if you try to picture the situation, you can see that although Biscuit is in the car, I'm hanging halfway out ... getting cold ... getting wet.

This happened just the other night. We went out to dinner, then took the in-laws to a sweet treat spot. Just as everyone was getting settled at the table, Biscuit make his announcement. I knew the bathroom didn't have a changing area, so I took him out to the car.

Let me set the scene ... the temperature was in the low 30s, Biscuit was wearing several layers, and when it gets cold, the hydraulic door-holder-upper thing on the back door of my car doesn't work, so the lift gate had to rest on my back. So I lifted Biscuit into the back of the car, stuck myself halfway in the back of the car, let the door down on my back and proceeded to try to find my baby under the layers of clothing I had dressed him in. I was also trying to move quickly before hypothermia set in on his bare little legs. Needless to say, the situation was not ideal. Actually, it's rarely ideal.

So we've talked about boogers and poop. Let's move on to gas.

Biscuit doesn't yet see a difference between poop and poot, so we never know if he has gas or if we need to change a messy diaper. And when it's gas, he just lets it fly. No inhibitions.

Jeff was still in bed while I was taking a shower the other morning. I walked back into the bedroom to get some socks, and I witnessed my sweet baby boy raise one side of his butt up while he passed gas on my pillow. HE FARTED WHERE I LAY MY HEAD TO SLEEP!!!! It didn't faze him. He did it and kept right on watching cartoons.

That same night, Jeff was giving Biscuit a bath. Jeff asked him to stand up so he could wash his behind. As Jeff was leaning over to finish the bath, Biscuit propped one hand on top of Jeff's head, raised his leg and let one fly ... right in Jeff's face.

It gets to the point where there's really nothing you can do but laugh. And that's exactly what we do. We laugh, then Biscuit laughs. My family laughs together. How funny is it that we can find joy in the crudest of moments?

Been there, done that

I read a friend’s blog post about her 1-year-old son’s curiosity, and I had to laugh. Apparently, her son got into something he wasn’t supposed to get into (which they do like it’s their job!), she had to call poison control. And that led me to a sort of been-there-done-that feeling.

When Biscuit was still a wee tiny thing and still sleeping in our bedroom in a playpen, he kept getting these mysterious mosquito bites on his face and head. We couldn’t for the life of us figure out A. how the suckers were getting into the house, and 2. why they were targeting our sweet little baby.

We never saw them flying or heard them buzzing during waking hours. It was like the mosquitoes were lying in wait until we went to sleep so they could do their worst on our son’s head!

We tried all manner of ridiculous things to keep them away, including pinning dryer sheets to the corners of the playpen. I know it sounds strange, but the bites stopped after we did that. So even though it looked odd, I left the dryer sheets where they were. Until …

We have a ceiling fan in our bedroom that we keep on low speed all the time during the summer. And as an added bonus, I read a study that ceiling fans can help prevent SIDs. I’m not how true that one is, but hey, the fan was on anyway, so I figured it was a good thing.

Anyway, the fan caused the dryer sheets to waft in the wind, and one day, when Biscuit woke up from his nap and sat up, one of the sheets flipped over to the inside of the playpen, right into his little grasp. I heard him cooing on the monitor, so I headed from the living room to the bedroom to get him. When I turned the corner to go into the bedroom, I saw him with a dryer sheet hanging out of his mouth, and he had this huge grin on his face.

“NOOOOOOO!!!!!” I yelled. Which, of course, made him cry. I yanked the dryer sheet out of his mouth and called my Mama.

And let me just pose this question right here and right now … How do women who don’t have mamas do when they have babies?!? Who do they call in panic situations?

Anyway, Mama suggested I call poison control just to be sure. I dialed the number, got a nice lady on the other end and proceeded to tell her what happened. She said Biscuit would be perfectly fine. And even though he had probably only been sucking on the sheet for a few seconds, she suggested I get him to eat and drink, so the soap in the dryer sheets wouldn’t upset his stomach.

The lady took my name, address and phone number. She took Biscuit’s name, age, weight and some other information. I know it’s protocol, but it truly made me feel like a horrible mother, and that the incident was being recorded on my Permanent Record.

Then I got off the phone and cried and cried and cried.

It’s amazing to me how you put so much effort into trying to keep your kids safe and within a few seconds, they can do something so crazy or weird or dangerous that it endangers their lives.

The friend that made me remember this incident will probably read this blog post, and I hope it makes her feel better. And while I’m at it, maybe I should just forward this to all my girlfriends who are pregnant or hoping to get that way in the future.

A nice equation

I've never been that great at math. But last night I think I hit upon a very successful new equation.

It goes like this:

Biscuit + triangle-shaped food = chowing down because he thinks it's pizza.

We had broccoli and cheddar quiche last night, something I hadn't made in a while. He loved it the last time he ate it, but as any parent of a toddler knows, taste for food can turn on a dime! One day he loves it and asks for seconds. The next day he acts like you're trying to feed him razor blades.

So we had quiche and hashbrowns last night for dinner. I told Biscuit to come to the table for dinner, and as I was lifting him into his high chair, he saw the quiche on his plate.

"Oooooo. PIZZA!!!!" Biscuit yelled.

I came really close to correcting him, but before I could say anything, he had grabbed a forkful and was chewing with pleasure. I decided to leave well enough alone. And then I thought I would try to build on my success.

"Biscuit," I said. "I had to cut your french fries into little pieces when I cooked them, okay?"

"Okay, Mom," Biscuit said. And he ate those, too.

So my new cooking goal is to see how many foods I can turn into triangle-shaped masses on his plate. I'll keep you posted.

He's awesome

Conversation just now:

Biscuit: I love you, Mama.

Me: I love you, too, baby. You are my favorite little boy in the whole world.

Biscuit: Yeah. I awesome.

Self-confidence ... check!

I Wanna Be A Cowboy

Biscuit seems to be quite taken with horses these days. If you recall, he had a spell with horses one time before, but because his pronunciation was a little off, it sounded like he was referring to a lady of the evening when he tried to talk about them.

He's got it down pat now, though. And any time he sees a horse or a cowboy in a book or on TV, he goes nuts and has to find the horse that goes with his farm set. Tonight, after seeing a cowboy on TV, Biscuit had to hold the horse from his farm set and a cookie cutter horse that goes with a Play-Dough set.

This past week, he saw a cowboy on TV, jumped out of his chair and ran up to the TV. "NEED COWBOY HAT, DAD!!! NEED COWBOY HAT!!!" Biscuit screamed.

"I don't think we have a cowboy hat," I told Biscuit.

But quick-thinking Jeff said, "I know where we can get a cowboy hat, boy, come with me." Jeff started walking toward our bedroom with Biscuit hot on his heels.

When they got back to the living room, Biscuit was WAY too excited. "Got cowboy hat, Mom!"

He was wearing an Atlantic Beach bucket hat with the sides rolled up. It did sorta have the shape of a cowboy hat. Biscuit was thrilled, and Jeff was quite pleased with himself and his creative efforts, too.

Biscuit strutted around the living room for a few minutes, and then it was like a lightbulb went off over his head.

"Got cowboy hat, Mom," Biscuit said.

"I see your hat. That's a cool cowboy hat," I said to him.

"NEED COWBOY HORSE!!!" Biscuit yelled.

Good thing he has one of the Radio Flyer bouncing horses to ride. I'm not sure if even Mr. Creative Jeff could've come up with a substitute for that.

Owwww.

Biscuit had a bruise and a little bump on his forehead when I got to day care the other day. His teacher met me at the door to tell me what happened.

I wasn't really alarmed, 1. because it was a tiny bump and very small bruise, and 2. I know that as a 2-year-old, Biscuit's feet work faster than his sense of good judgment.

And sure enough, when his teacher handed me the accident report, it said Biscuit was running across the classroom and didn't stop before he got to the bookcase. First of all, he wasn't supposed to be running in class. And secondly, I just wanted to say, "Really? Did you not see the bookcase getting closer? Could you not stop before you smashed your head into a inanimate object?"

Anyway, all that aside, I wanted to make sure he was okay, so I squatted down and asked, "Biscuit, did you hurt your head today?"

"Owwww," he said as he rubbed his head. Then he walked over and grabbed his coat.

We got to the car, and as I was strapping him into his car seat, I said, "I'm sorry you hurt your head today."

"Owwww," he said and rubbed his head again.

We got home, and Biscuit was excited to see Jeff.

"Tell Dad how you hurt your head today, Biscuit," I said.

"Owwww," Biscuit said, and you guessed it, he rubbed his head.

This continued for the rest of the night.

I wonder if he would still say it?

Yep. It's been several days, and I just asked Biscuit, "Did you hurt your head at day care this week?"

"Owwww," he said and rubbed his head.

Oh, did I mention that when he rubs his head, it's nowhere near the spot he bruised?

The healing touch

One morning this week, Jeff, Biscuit and I were sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast. Jeff had already told me that he had a splitting sinus headache. So when Biscuit decided it was time to scream and squeal with glee, I told him to whisper because Dad's head was hurting.

Any time Biscuit is that happy, I hate to dampen his spirits, but having had sinus headaches of my own, I knew the excitement wasn't helping Jeff feel any better.

Biscuit looked at Jeff and asked, "Head hurt, Dad?"

"Yeah, boy. My head hurts," Jeff said.

"I touch it," Biscuit said. Then Jeff leaned over, and Biscuit rubbed the top of his head.

After a few seconds, Jeff straightened back up, and Biscuit went back to eating his oatmeal.

I stared at Jeff until he looked at me, then I said, "Please tell me that your head still hurts, because if our 2-year-old just healed you, I'll probably have to pass out in the floor!"

"It still hurts," Jeff said. "But it was awfully sweet of him to try."

Good timing

A post from The Daddy Man:

Most parents are usually just waiting for an opportunity to brag about their kids' abilities. My kid has a talent, but I'm not sure I want to brag about it.

Our Biscuit has an uncanny ability to fill up a diaper within 15 minutes of me taking out the trash. And any parent of a toddler knows that you can't just put that kind of diaper in the trash can and wait until you fill it up again. Nope. It has to go straight to the big trash bin outside.

And is it my imagination ... or is it always raining?