My Kids are Almost Adults -- Or Something

My son Johnny just had a birthday and I asked his big sister, Belle, how old he is now.

"Two-and-a-half," she declared.

"Close, he's two," I said.

"Right, two," Belle. "And do you know who's going to have a birthday in October?"

"Who?" I said.

"Me! I'm going to be four! I'm going to be an adult, or something."

She may not be an adult, but she sings and plays the "Dora the Explorer" theme song on the piano pretty well for a three-year-old:

Once, while playing piano, she got so excited she fell right off the bench.

Johnny gets pretty excited when I get home from work. He basically does a Big-Ten-Marching-Band high step. I call it the Johnny Happy Dance:



Belle, like many kids, gets her share of bumps and bruises. So I bought her one of those new Winnie the Pooh ice packs. It's genius: Soft, non-toxic, supposedly resists freezer burn. I saw it as a key part of our first aid. Belle, of course, saw it as a key part of her toy chest. She kept making up "owies" to try to get it from the freezer.

When her mommy said, "You have to have a legitimate owie to get the Winnie the Pooh ice pack," Belle immediately ran head-first into the wall to get it.

A few minutes later, she passed gas. "Daddy, sometimes when people toot, it feels REALLY good."

Going to the 'Beauty Salon'

It seems to happen at some point in every kid's life: Cutting one's own hair in such a way that it looks like a drunk gardener styled it with hedge trimmers.

My three-year-old daughter, Belle, was playing with a six-year-old friend when they discovered some misplaced scissors. Her friend offered to help Belle play "beauty salon." Before that, she had bangs and long hair. Afterwards, she had no bangs and a chunk of hair missing from the middle of the back of her head. It was a sort of reverse-mohawk.

"I LOVE it!" Belle declared. Her mommy didn't, and immediately took her to a friend's house to have a stylist fix it. Belle now has a Beatles mop. Belle loves the Beatles, and her hair. She pulls it off.

Belle has been asserting herself more and more lately. Like the other day when I asked her to clean up some toys before going to the park.

"Daddy," she said, "stop being so naughty. You have to know the truth. If you don't come to the park right now, I'm going to get in the mini-van and drive away!"

"Oh really?" I said. "How about I count to three and then you clean up your toys first?"

"I'm coming," she said hurriedly.

Most people are in such a rush these days, even kids. Belle always wants to "beat" her little brother, Johnny, to get her shoes on before him.

"It's not a race," I told her. After all, Johnny just drools while I put his shoes on for him. Then he says "Shoes! Dance!" over and over like the refrain to "It's a Small World."

"I know it's not a race," Belle said.

"Good, that's settled then," I said.

"It's not a race, but I won," she declared. "I really won."

"Huh?" I said.

"I won the not-a-race," she said.