Oops, I Did it Again.

Written by: BetteJo from A Bead a Day

My dad came into my darkened room and quietly sat on the edge of my bed. He spoke to me but I kept my back to him and refused to acknowledge him.

“I will still be your father. I will come and get you and we will go places and do things together.”

He may have said more but that is all I would remember. I would remember it always as a promise, as the promise. It may as well have floated in sparkly gold letters above my head – it was the promise my dad made me, it would be the promise he would break over and over again.

I loved climbing into my dad’s lap, asking him for bone jarring pony rides or trying to pull out the gray whiskers he would let grow on the weekends. I would sit on the toilet seat and watch him shave at the bathroom sink with something akin to adoration, thrilling in the chase when he would try to gently slap a little of his spicy aftershave onto my cheeks.

My daughter had games she played with her daddy, and many naps taken in his arms. He would take her shopping or on errands with him, or swing her up onto his shoulders so she could be so-o-o-o tall. Saturday morning cartoons were a shared treat for all of them, Daddy and his son and his daughter. They would pile together on the couch and laugh at Pee Wee’s playhouse and tickle and giggle.

I worked the night shift at the time so weekend mornings were Daddy time, as were weeknights. For a few years he was the one to bathe them and spend that snuggly, warm, sleepy time with them before tucking them into bed each night. It seemed ideal that my kids were having so much of their dad’s influence and hands on parenting instead of getting almost all of their nurturing from me. Mom is great after all, but Mom and Dad is better.

There were spaces of time after my parent’s divorce where my dad would call and come by and take me to a picnic, or back to his house for the day. Mostly though, I saw him on weekend mornings when he would come by and hand me the check for my Mom through the screen door. He wouldn’t stay, wouldn’t come in, just give me the check and leave. It didn’t take long for the checks to start coming in the mail and the calls to be fewer and farther between.

It also didn’t take long for the knowledge to settle deep in my heart that I didn’t really matter to my dad. I did not recognize the knowledge, certainly did not verbalize it, but lived with the certainty of it as if that was the logical result of my not being good enough. Because I must not have been good enough if even my daddy couldn’t love me, right?

I married a man who was nothing like my father. I wanted to spare my children the pain and anguish of an absentee dad who was not about to take responsibility for any emotional wounds he may inflict upon my kids. Our kids. Right?

I asked my 21 year old daughter yesterday, whether or not she had responded to her father’s invitation to his upcoming wedding. In her completely logical but heartbreakingly accurate assessment she said;

“I feel no pressure, socially or otherwise, to RSVP to my father’s wedding invitation.”

She continued in her matter of fact way.

“I can’t feel pressure to do something considered to be polite and proper etiquette when he couldn’t be bothered to do something as correct and basic as - to parent.”

I can only hope she will not continue the cycle and unknowingly marry a man just like her father, like I did, after all. And I hope she can forgive me for it.

~*~

BetteJo is a single mom of 2 grown kids who beads and blogs and tries to keep putting one foot in front of the other on a daily basis. She usually succeeds at this. Doing it well, not so much.

Beautiful Boy

Beautiful Boy

It seems, according to All Things Blog, that mommy bloggers must write Birthday Letters. (Dooce, we all bow down to you in unison!) As Finn, my fourth baby and only boy, was born a year ago this week, here goes:

Dear Finnian Jude Badru Zen,

I'm sorry. Right after I give birth I'm tired and more interested in getting to know the creature who, only hours earlier, was cradled in the confines of my body. I give in to his Madness, and thus you will spend the rest of your life explaining four names, especially the last one, which is not a name but an entire philosophy. No pressure.

I'm sorry. They were just so crazy about you, and every time I turned my back, one of them was sitting on you, carrying you by your neck, biting you (with love), or feeding you a lollipop. I tried to keep them away in the beginning, but you were just so damn cute! I checked with the pediatrician -- no permanent damage from sucking lollipops in the first week of life, and your neck was most likely that long before the incident. We just hadn't noticed.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to spend so much of your first year in a shopping cart; it just happened. There's a whole lot of stuff you need when there's six of you who all insist on eating three times a day, who lose shoes on a daily basis, and also go through approximately six rolls of toilet paper in twelve hours. I'm sure I've read that the mall is a very stimulating environment for babies and that shoe stores are mostly decorated in colors that infants can see!

I'm sorry. I didn't actually take you out in dresses, or the pink onesies, or the lace socks, or the flowered bonnets, at least not when you started looking like a boy! It's just that baby clothes are so expensive, and I already had so many, and I didn't want you to spend any more time in the shopping cart. I've also read that it's okay for boys to play with dolls, and believe it or not, those floozy hooker figures count as dolls! It allows you to express your inner female. I'm sure any day now we'll get you some cars and trucks.

I'm sorry. That whole sanitizing and boiling stuff is really over-rated. They say dogs have cleaner mouths than humans anyway. I probably should have never given you a pacifier or a bottle or a teething ring seeing how Ezra is so crazy about them. And I promise I only mixed your formula with Sprite once! I was desperate!

I'm sorry. I never really let the others cry it out, but I'm tired, Man! I'm just over the sleep deprivation! How was I supposed to know your knee was stuck between the crib slats? You have to parent boys differently, you know! You have to teach them to work out their issues themselves, to problem solve. Buck up, Soldier!

I'm sorry. I wish this year could stretch on forever. A day will come in the not distant enough future when I will forget the precise weight of your fuzzy head on my shoulder, the smell of your milky breath on my neck, the feel of your tiny fingers twisting in the curls at the nape of my neck. In place of my arms, those little feet will have carried you down a road less traveled by me, and I will be sorry, very, very sorry.

"Before you cross the street
Take my hand
Life is what happens to you
While you're busy making other plans

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy

Before you go to sleep
Say a little prayer
Every day in every way
It's getting better and better

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Darling, darling, darling
Darling [Finn.]"
(John Lennon)
Love,

Mama

Written by Meg Fitzpatrick

Meg is a writer, editor, teacher, and mom to four little menches. You can tune into her cyber sitcom at www.simplynutmeg.com.

I WILL

by Wendy of Things in Your Head.

The ocean always seemed to me to be a perfect metaphor for life. It is so vast and overwhelming, that while looking at it from a minute patch of shore, you are made to feel the smallness of yourself in relation. Which, I believe, is a good thing – especially when we, as children, tend to think of ourselves as the entire world. You can get anything out of the ocean that you wish; food, sport, relaxation, commerce, inspiration. It is up to you to carve out the meaning and use, much like life.

When we talked about taking my son to the beach for the first time, it was no big deal to my husband, since he had grown up with the ocean in his backyard. For me, living 3 hours away from the sea, it was an event, not merely happenstance. You planned for a viewing of the ocean; you did not simply glimpse it on your way about life. So we went into this day with different histories and different memories. And yet, when we saw the ocean through our son's eyes, we both felt the same moment in its enormity. I saw my husband take my son in his arms and look out and in that look, a million silent promises went forth: I will protect you; I will be there for you; I will never let you down; I will always love you; the world is out there – your family will always be behind you; I was so happy that I was able to capture that moment in this photograph; the digital equivalent of an old family story that no amount of words can properly relate as much as the image itself.

I have always loved the ocean. When my husband and I were first married, the ocean was fifteen minutes from our home. My favorite thing was to sit on the sand at dusk with a notebook in hand, listening to the wind, smelling the perfect perfume that only sand, salt and air can create, willing the moment to continue. It never did. As much as I begged the sun not to bend over the horizon, move out of sight, take its stunning pink-and-purple sky swirling out of view, it did and I mourned that moment, the end of a brilliance unable to be duplicated.

I no longer live near the ocean. I do not miss it the same way that my husband does but I do miss it. I know that I need the water to write and to feel and to create but I know that I will find my way back to it. From the time I was small, whenever anyone asked me where I thought I would wind up, I always answered: in a house by the sea. Whenever my creativity flags and I feel that I will never again have anything relevant to say or monumental to write about, I think to the beach. I feel it waits for me; that it knows the time is not right but we will meet up eventually.

My son looks at that picture now, framed in my study and he says 'Me and Daddy at the beach.' I am happy he has that memory since it seems, for now, that the ocean and he will not be frequent companions. But I do love that the ocean is something different for everyone who encounters it. There are no two ways to swallow the experience. It is a unique endeavor for all that feel that seductive sea air lift the hair off their face and sniff the unmistakable signature that is saltwater.

We will get back there one day. But for now, I am glad to have my son's first acquaintance with the ocean frozen in a combination of pixels and binary data for eternity.

Wendy

Wendy writes about matters small and insignificant with brazen authority at Things in Your Head. She loves music, books, candy corn and the word ‘consortium’. She hates boa constrictors and mean people.

A Heart to Laugh With, a Hand to Hold

Written by Beth at Sense & Sensibilities

It starts with a finger, that little tiny fist clenched around my finger, my hand in his. It’s instinctual, I’m sure – a sweet reminder – an “I am here.” A contradiction to an idea I can’t even wrap my mind around. This beautiful creature is entirely in my hands, a part of me forever.

A chubby fist, in his mouth one minute and grabbing my hair the next, carefully and thoughtfully attempts to manipulate the Cheerio on his tray. Like a claw in an arcade game, the fingers slowly close around the cereal and then raise … success! Today it is cereal; tomorrow’s quest may be a bug in the yard.

The steps are hesitant but eager, a little hand holding tightly to mine for reassurance. First two hands, then one, then he’s on his own. A few steps, then down, then off we go again. And again. Freedom for him brings worries for me. Please, hold my hand a little longer.

One finger in his mouth to calm his nerves is quickly replaced by a happy wave. A “bye mom!” and his hand is holding the teacher’s as he starts a life without me there by his side. Excited hands quickly pull art projects from his bag as he relates his day to me, stories of new friends, new experiences and the occasional new hurt.

My hand firmly rests upon his as he clutches the handlebars. “Don’t let go,” he says. Never, I think. Pedal, pedal, pedal … and I let go.

“Slide! Slide!” the base coach shouts. A cloud of dust, then “safe!” The mitt comes off as his sweaty hand reaches for a drink on the bench. Thinking he is oblivious to my presence, I continue to cheer his team. A quick glance my way, a wink, a wave.

After a hastily muttered goodbye, he shuts the car door behind him. His saunter up the school steps is confident and easy. The girl waits for him inside, flips her hair over her shoulder with one hand, and slips her other hand into his.

The car keys jingle as he pulls them off the hook. One hand reaches for his wallet, the other grabs a Pepsi, and the door closes behind him. I smile as the door opens once again only to show his crooked grin, a wink and a wave – “bye mom.”

He takes her hand softly as she reaches the altar. To have and to hold …

“Isn’t she beautiful mom?” His hands look so big holding that tiny bundle, wrapped snugly in a blanket. As he gently strokes her face, a little fist grabs his finger and he smiles. Just as he has had my heart all of these years, she now has his – forever in his hands.

Beth is the author of Sense & Sensibilities, where she relates stories of her life with a Sensible husband, two not-so-Sensible boys, hormones and stalkers.

Immigrants R Us

by Emma Kaufmann fromMommy Has A Headache,










Irish Immigrants arriving in the USA 1902

My husband has been out of town for the last week, and
before he left, he bunged me a load of cash, said au
revoir and left me to fend for myself. I don't mean to
imply that I am one of those followers of that weird
cult book, The Surrendered Wife, which claims that
if a woman submits to her husband's will, her
marriage will be as fragrant as a basket of freshly
baked muffins. I just, oh God, this
is hard to say... I just don't carry credit cards,
because I am not safe with them. Giving me
credit cards would basically be like asking me to fly
a plane. Re the plane, don't be surprised if it
crashes and burns, and re the credit cards, don't be
surprised if I order a lot of lingerie, books and
expensive shampoos over the Internet. So, since I'm
not yet working (no green card), my husband doles me
out a certain amount of cash per week, and when I have
spent that, that is that. Additionally, he always goes
out and puts gas in my car, in essence, making him
more of a surrendered husband than me a surrendered
wife.

So basically, I had not put gas into my car by myself
for two years (please bear in mind that I've
only been driving for four years total). And so
yesterday, there I was, making a valiant attempt to
fill up my car, but however much I manhandled the
nozzle (no innuendo intended), no gas was forthcoming.
I simply could not remember how to do it.

Well, yes, this is a little embarrassing, I thought,
so I went into the gas station shop and talked to the
beautiful sari-clad woman behind the counter, who very
graciously offered to help me.

"You are a foreigner, from England?" she said.

"Yes."

"I think you have not been here long?"

I was going to say, "Actually it's been seven years,"
but it would have been too embarrassing to say that in
seven years I had not learnt how to pump gas, so
instead I said, "No, not long."

"You do not usually pump your own gas?" she said, as
she stuck the nozzle into my car.

"No, I don't."

"I know how you feel. Back in my country, Pakistan, I
had servants who did all that. When I came to America,
I said to my husband, 'What? You want me to fill up my
own gas tank? Are you crazy?'" She chuckled.

Oh goodness me, no. I didn't want her to think I was
some pampered little housewife who had a valet to pump
her gas for her. "I don't pump my own gas because,
well, because my husband does it for me. Not because I
have servants."

And then there was a brief moment of summing each
other up, as we tried to work out the other's social
status. I thought it was pretty obvious that back in
Pakistan, she had been of a higher social status than
me. But maybe she thought that I was of the higher
class. In any case, it mattered not a jot, because us
both being immigrants was the great class leveller.

And I thought of all the immigrants that have entered
this country, and for once I actually thought, I am
glad to be an immigrant. Because when you are a
foreigner, you are equal to all other foreigners. For
example, to some people here, I am as loathed as an
illegal Mexican immigrant (not that I am saying there
is anything wrong with Mexicans, illegal or
otherwise).

I didn't ask the woman why she had left her homeland
to come here. We all have our stories. We are all
running away from something when we come to a foreign
country, and we don't always find the welcome we
expected.

And for that moment, I felt more connected to her than
I have to any born and bred American, since I have
been in this country. It was a good feeling actually,
knowing that these were my people. That all American
immigrants, past and future, were my community.

Bambi Meets Warhol

Written by The Good Woman from My Wee Scottish Blog

One, two three wheee!

I like to think Andy Warhol would have approved of Bambi's entrance at his exhibition in Edinburgh. But, as an artist who unashamedly was out to make money, the fact that we'd gleefully handed over the entrance fee would probably have been enough to get on his good side.

She briefly considered the portraits of Debby Harry, Liza Minnelli and James Dean and pronounced them happy (although not one had cracked a smile – such is the power of colour!). She accurately identified the entire 'Pictures for children' exhibit ('Aeroplane! Boat!, Robot!,'Doggy!') thoughtfully all hung at her eyeline. And then she spent an entire hour gently prodding at silver clouds. Literally hundreds of visitors to this exhibition now consider my daughter to be part of the installation.

And then we played together in the studio downstairs. We made stencil prints of butterflies, created dramatic tissue paper backdrops for stark black screens and made our very own time capsule with the contents of my handbag. I doubt the entire exhibition was deigned with children in mind, but children, including those of the 'inner' kind, were well catered for.

Did Bambi leave with an understanding of pop art? Probably not. But then that wasn't the point. This was an exhibition to enjoy. She experienced art and she had a brilliant time.

Later, when I showed her this portrait I made of her, she laughed and said, 'I match Andy Warhol!'. If that's not early art appreciation, I'll eat my easel!

The Good Woman is a South African expat wife, now living in Scotland. Read more of her adventures and thoughts at her wee Scottish Blog. Please drop by. She loves visitors.

Part I of the adventure in Tadra Gorge

Written by Lady MacLeod from Braveheart Does the Maghreb

I looked straight up and all I could see was rock, pinkish rock with sides so smooth it looked like a carving. The walls shoot up 300 meters of brown limestone and I could feel the heat of the day locked in the rock and pulsing outward. The wind coming off the water carrying the spray was cooling me like a fan. It was after two, the sun had passed overhead and the temperature had plummeted like a rock. I was actually shivering. After having spent the day feeling like a piece of chocolate melting and leaking out the sides of the packaging, it was bliss. “Feeling better are you?”

“Mercy yes. I'm afraid I don’t do well in the heat,” I said as I stood there still dripping and wiping my face with his kerchief.

“That really begs the question of why you have decided to stay in Morocco,” Hassan laughed. God he has great teeth. Sorry I have a real thing for great teeth and a nice tight bum (Q just read ahead if you roll your eyes any further back you could lose them).

‘Many reasons not the least of which is that I love the people here,” I said feeling decidedly cooler and more articulate. I think my powers of verbalization decrease as the temperature increases. I bent down in a squat and rinsed my arms and neck in the very cold river water.

“We best turn back here if I am going to get you back in time to feed the cat. The airport in Rabat won’t allow landings after six-thirty and we need to have lunch and pick up Ali. We can have tea on the plane if that’s alright,” he said taking my arm and helping me over the rocks. Yes, yes I didn’t need the help, but I ‘m not completely stupid!

It all began with a walk to the market on Saturday when I decided to take my cherries (of which there is a bounty and they are magnificent) over to the park. I am sitting on a bench eating my cherries and watching the people, like you do, when I spot coming toward me a cutout from “world’s yummiest men”. In the heat he was wearing a three piece Saville Row suit complete with red power tie. He looked as though he was walking through a fall day in London, not ninety degree heat in Morocco. I was dressed in my gold djellaba with the black trim and black linen trousers. Thank the gods I had just done my hair! I don’t think my makeup had melted off just yet.

“You are not a tourist,” he said sitting down beside me. He spoke in English with a soft Moroccan accent. When Moroccans speak English it’s like they polish the words first like a river rock, takes all the rough edges off.

“No, are you?” I said being a smartass.

“No, but I am visiting Rabat. I'm taking my plane down to Quarzazate tomorrow and I wondered if you would like to come along and visit the Todra gorge. I hate to fly alone. You are Lady Macleod are you not?” He had the look of someone who had just said, “gotcha”.

“Yes, but how would you know that?” Now I was really interested and not a little nervous. I am pretty sure I had managed not to have my mouth hanging open.

My son attends university in America and his friend from Fez told him about your blog and he read it. He wrote me to ask if I knew you.”

“If you KNEW me? Like a celebrity? Oh my giddy aunt!” I really had no idea how to react to this. Morocco is not that small a country.

‘Yes. Exactly like that really. He told me where to find you on Facebook so I would know what you look like when I told him I was coming to Rabat before I leave the country.” He was saying all this as though it was all perfectly normal that in a city the size of Rabat he would just buzz into town and FIND ME.

“Now you don’t want to pass up another chance like the chap in the market do you?” he asked looking like the cat who ate the cream.

“What? How…” Oh shit I am thinking perhaps the blog has become a bit too personal.

If you are interested the tale of the rest of our day and the visit to Todra Gorge along with photographs can be found in my archives of 4,5,6,7, and 9 June 2007. It was a fabulous trip but I have a word limit here so… Ciao.

A Bottle of Love

Written by Melody from Slurping Life

It's just an old brown bottle...

My Grandmama's hands caressed the glass

as she rolled out the dough.

Now I nestle the bottle in my hands.

My fingers tingle with memories of

dumplings, pies, cookies

talking, singing, laughter

and the love which fills me.

~

When my maternal Grandmother died ten years ago, her only personal belonging I asked to have was the brown bottle. For as long as any family member can remember, Grandmama used this bottle as her rolling pin. As a little girl, my summers were spent with my Grandmama...countless hours of happiness watching her roll out dough on the Hoosier cabinet in her kitchen. Traces of dried dough cling in the crevice of the bottle's lip. Traces of my Grandmother cling within me.

I love you, Grandmama. I miss you. ox

He Didn't Have to Be

Written by Sara from Suburban Oblivion

The man in the picture is my husband, on our wedding day.

The golden-haired child in his arms is our daughter.

She is a self-proclaimed daddy’s girl, and always has been.

They enjoy playing games together, going for rides in his car, and whispering secrets I pretend not to hear.

They share a bond I sometimes envy, and their ease together is so amazing and natural.

You’d never know he wasn’t there, not during her conception, or for her delivery. She was the child of a previous relationship.

He didn’t come into her life until she was 6 weeks old, but has been there ever since.

We got married when she was 3, and he filed to adopt her immediately afterwards.

There are good daddies and bad daddies, but she got a different kind when he came along.

He is the most special kind of daddy- the kind who didn’t have to be.

Chuck

Written by Lori from Gal-lori

You know the old saying, ‘a picture paints a thousand words’ and while I usually like my writings to you all to be funny and entertaining, today, with this picture, I must stray from my norm.

My Dad.

Can you see it? Can you feel it? Can you just tell the kind of guy he is? Take a moment before I fill you in to see if you can guess.

No, don’t read on yet. Really. Don’t scroll down yet. Look at the picture and see if you can tell what is under that hat and behind those glasses. C’mon, it’ll be fun. See how good you are by judging a book by its cover…or a man by his picture.

The strong silent type
No bullshit
Tough love
Tell-it-like-it-is-you-always-know-where-you-stand.

That’s Chuck.

Even his name says that. Chuck. Say it out loud and you’ll know what I mean.

The guy everyone turns to.
The one we all know we can depend on.
The one that has seen things that we could only imagine, but don’t dare to try.
The guy that knows right from wrong.

Chuck.

The guy that has a faith that he never talks about but you know it’s there. Strong.
The guy that loves country music.
The guy that hunts and fishes but feeds the ducks and squirrels and swans and orioles and finches, and, and, and…

The guy that had a photo album of his best friend, his dog.

But something happens to those strong silent tough guys when they get older. When they have grandchildren. They become ‘Papa Chuck’ and words come out of their mouths that you hardly ever imagined.

Babycakes.

Yes, Chuck says Babycakes now, and when you ask my three year old daughter, ‘What does Papa Chuck call you?’ She proudly, but sheepishly will tell you, ‘Babycakes.’

He’s always been that way though, with words like Babycakes inside.

Family man.
Loyal friend.
A great husband, father, grandfather, son, brother, uncle and cousin.

He’s like a whole range of bears all rolled into one. The great grizzly bear on the outside, fierce and protective and teddy bear on the inside, loving and caring beyond belief. I’ve even heard him called polar bear once because of how cold he used to keep the house.

Chuck.

That’s my Dad.

Piglet, Where are You?

Written by Pickel from My Two Boys

Little Pickel: “Go swimming, go swimming, go swimming, go swimming, go swimming, go swimming,”

He just stared at me, demanding to, obviously, go swimming.

Me: “No, I have told you for the hundredth time today. It is only 7 am. The POOL IS CLOSED.”

Little Pickel charged at me, arms swinging, legs kicking, anger ensuing. I artfully scooped him up dodging tiny hands that were grasping for my hair and carried him to our Time-In Chair to take a break. I held him tightly to help calm him while I listened to him scream out of control about going swimming NOW. His legs thrashed, tears ran down his face under his glasses, and he avoided my eyes until he finally began to ease himself down from his temper.

Little Pickel: “AHHHHrrrrrr, I’ll eat you up.”

He growled with a tempting smile.

I laughed and responded “I am King!”

Little Pickel giggled. My little one was back from his high, twenty sweaty minutes later.

I talked to him softly, completing our Time-In ritual with hugs and kisses and let him down off my lap. He ran off yelling “Piglet, where are you?”

This type of tantrum, of course, is common in our house and always has been. But I am sure many moms have experienced those at one time of another. What is more interesting is the language Little Pickel uses.

Little Pickel has not been diagnosed with Autism but rather shunned off as a speech delayed kid, an Institutional Autism case, and a possible Fetal Alcohol Effect child due to his biological misfortune. However, each and everyday we see more and more organic Autism markers; so much so that I am going to have him evaluated again, perhaps this time off the Gluten Free and Casein Free diet.

Since the moment Little Pickel entered our home just under two years ago we have done everything possible to give him the best care he can get. That includes diets, medications, therapies, schools, respite, and our unconditional love and perseverance.

It also includes a journey into his fantasy language. Little Pickel uses Echolalia to communicate and to learn language. He scripts everything and later uses those scripts to aid him in his communication. He connects to people using lines from movies and books in a delayed manner. However, not all of his echolalia fit the situations he is in. He will often answer a question with a phrase that is completely unrelated to what he is asked because he does not know how to answer or repeat the question as the answer. This drives my mother crazy.

Grandma: “Did you have fun today?”

Little Pickel: “Fun today?”

Grandma: “No, did you have fun today?”

Little Pickel: “Fun Today? Okay.”

By joining his world we have had to learn his language. We watch his movies, read the same books, listen to his music and make sure we listen to everything around us because he has a photographic memory for words and phrases. If we can respond to him in his language we can be included and have conversations with him.

By doing this we have greatly increased his language, both receptive and expressive. His scripting and echolalia have gotten even more distinct and he is talking more but he is adding to his words. Instead of just saying “What happened?” he is asking “What happened? Oh, it’s broken”; two phrases or scripts that he used to use independently.

The best thing about him being able to script spontaneously is that occasionally I will hear “I love you” without having to be the first to say it.

Little Pickel: “Mama, I love you. I love you. I love you.

Me: “Did you say that because you want to go swimming?”

Little Pickel: With no hesitation, “Yes.”

MOM-NOS has a great article on this at http://momnos.blogspot.com/2006/03/dr-strangetalk-or-how-i-learned-to.html

As does Be a Good Dad: http://www.beagooddad.com/418/it-all-makes-sense/

This video is great example of how Little Pickel speaks and gets stuck on words and conversations.

Pickel is a SAHM wanting to be a WAHM. She is a mom of one blond angel from Arkhangelsk, Russia who lights up her life (but obviously gives her a challenge. Visit her blog to journey with her family as they travel to Guatemala to adopt their second child, chelate their first, and try to stay sane, which at times is quite difficult. But, that’s why we have kids right? Otherwise life is no fun.