weekup, maimai

My schweetum is getting huge. (That's him serving as Maia's alarm clock, by the way. He's sitting on her head.) He uses sentences:

"Diegot!" Please turn on "Go, Diego, Go!"
"Ammon onna thibault." Perhaps you are confused. The TiVo remote is right here, on the coffee table.
"Eeyago ammon." Accept this remote as a gift. Turn the TV on. Now.

He's been accepted into preschool. He sleeps almost all night, in his own bed. He hasn't nursed since early February. He still name checks the boobies but he's pretty accepting being cut off from the milk bar. When he sees a Starbucks, he asks for a cookie. He knows stuff.

Don't tell anyone, but a baby he is not.

At the same time, though, he's gotten clingier, and also much more affectionate. I get gratuitous hugs and kisses all day, which is pretty awesome.

Meanwhile, our pre-tween, normally the sunniest person in our household -- the rest of us tend to range from subdued to melancholic to choleric -- is becoming a little, um, surly. For her, anyway. She expects a full explanation before following orders. She moves like cold molasses, no matter how late in the morning it is. She's not, well, as credulous as she used to be.

She also can't. stop. reading. This is part of why she's so slow. It's hard to complain about her staggering literacy. She disappears in the bathroom for endless hours. She reads in bed instead of getting up in the morning. She reads on the couch instead of eating breakfast. She reads the cereal box.

I would imagine our parents are feeling a sort of schadenfreude right now.