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."