Chores

 Her job (other than playing the kazoo and bugging her little brother) is to empty the dishwasher.

When I walked into the kitchen to check on her progress, she told me she was making "mushroom bowls".

If I gave creativity points for chores, I'd give her some.

Bodega Bay Part II

This time we invited Nana and Papa to come with us to Bodega Bay. And this time we outfitted ourselves a little better for the ocean.

Mark and Isabella stumbled upon this state-of-the-art sand castle. The wise man that built this house, built it upon a log (which is second best to a rock--unless, of course, there is a fire.)

Fortified with a giant-legless crab, and all.

The Foolish Man and his daughter built their house upon the sand (didn't the song teach them anything?!), which was washed away by the ocean eraser by the time I returned with the camera.

This day, Matthew was all about Papa.

But there's lots of lovin' for Nana too, who has successfully taught Matthew the meaning of "gentle". (At least he's gentle with Nana. He still scratches my face off.)

Mom told me about a sermon she heard from the pastor at their church that made her think of Matthew. The pastor told the story of a letter George Burns found, after his wife Gracie Allen, passed away. In the letter Gracie Allen wrote, "George, never put a period, where God has placed a comma." Well, I could have cried enough tears to make another ocean right then and there. When I was pregnant with Matthew my fear was that his having Down syndrome would be a period in his life and in my life. I was wrong. Matthew has Down syndrome (comma) but it certainly does not define his little soul. He is the hug you see in this picture; he is sunshine and sweetness, determination and adventure. In short, he is the snicker to my doodle.

And this one...she's the peanut to my butter. Mark? He's got to be the flip to my flop. (I wish I'd made these up.)

Nothing like a sand covered peach to end the day.

Don't Paint Your Chickens Before They Hatch. A True Story in Rhyme.

There are two little girls, each five years old. Isabella is imaginative, Ally is bold.

"We want to paint!" together they cry
"Ok", says Isabella's mother, "let's set you up outside."

"Now, the rules are simple," says Isa's mother, "the paint is for the paper, not your clothes or each other."

They nod at the orders they are not to ignore, then it's off to paint the sun, a house, and red monsters galore!

The mother then says, "Girls, the baby needs a nap. I must take him in, but I'll be back in a snap. Remember no silliness, paint your hearts out!  You will make masterpieces-- that I don't doubt!

But as the mother rocks the baby to sleep, Isabella is at the door, ready to weep.
"She painted my shirt, " she says in distress. A nap interrupted. A problem to address.

"Did you paint her shirt?"
"Yes, " Ally says with contrition.
"Well, it's a good thing it's washable, let's clean it up in the kitchen."

The mother turns to leave, a woman on a mission, as second confession slips out--
"And we painted the chicken!"

"You painted the chicken?!" this time, the mother distressed.
"Is it true Isabella? What Ally confessed?"
"Yes! We painted some feathers, and even its beak!" The giggles slip out. The mother can't speak.

"You can't...you didn't... who's idea was it?"
"Isabella's!" Ally declares, the accusation legit.

A mother befuddled; a parenting scenario, (surely) unwritten. What does one do when their kid paints the chicken? 

15 Week Sleep Over

I went for a run. Mark informs me, upon my return, that there is something waiting for me on our bedroom door.

I knock on the door. Isabella answers. "This is my room now." she tells me. (Note to self: apparently a bedroom can be commandeered with a simple self-portrait attached to the door with a sticker-- according to pirate code of a five year old. )
"Can you go get Daddy?"
"Sure." I say.
I go and get Mark. Mark comes to the door, knocks, and she excitedly lets him enter the room.
"We are having a sleep over for 15 weeks," she tells me. "But you and Matthew can't come."
So Matthew and I are left at the door, while the cool kids have their party. 

 There is wailing, weeping, and much lamentation.

 There is kicking of legs,

and flailing on the floor, until we are finally invited to the sleepover-party...

...which turns out to be Isabella barricaded behind a cushion, while Mark reads her books. Awesome.