My son, the kleptomaniac

What do you do with a 16 month old who has sticky fingers?

It all started with my wallet. Mattias likes to go through my purse until he finds my wallet, then the little pickpocket runs off where I can't see him and pilfers through it. He's more attracted to plastic than cash and to this day I'm still looking for my medical insurance card and my Costco card. At least he left the Amex alone.

Then we had the "bear incident". When I take Elise to school, I schlep Mattias with me. As I sign Elise in and talk to her teacher about any specific instructions related to diabetes, I have to put Mattias down. The first few weeks of school, he would run into Elise's classroom, rummage through a pile of stuffed animals, and always emerge with the same old, white bear.

He would walk through the hallway of the school hugging and patting the bear, and retrieving it from him resulted in much wailing and gnashing of teeth. So Elise's sweet teacher graciously "gave" Beary (as he has been dubbed) to Mattias. To this day, he snuggles it as he falls asleep.

Mattias's latest "five-finger discount" was at a local grocery store. I was there with my Mom who was wrangling the tiny thief as I was buying some bulk steel cut oats. My mom turned around for a second, and when she looked back, Mattias was high-tailing it away with a fig newton that he had looted from the bulk section in hand.

I'm thinking I might need to keep a lawyer on retainer for this one... I keep telling him that his cuteness will only keep him out of trouble for so long.

Elise-isms

Me: Elise, can you get me the Cheerios?

Elise: Sure Mom... are they in the pancreas?

Me (trying not to laugh): Actually, it's called the pantry

-I'm going to use my espada (sword in Portuguese) to scare off creditors (she meant predators).

-I'm a pirate... Ahoy ladies!

-I hurt my finger toe! (a finger toe is sort of the translation of toe in Portuguese)

The other day we were at the pedi for Mattias's 15 month well-child. Elise brought her baby doll with her and when the nurse asked her how old her baby was, Elise replied, "1 year... 3 months younger than Mattias."
Later, when I asked her how she knew the baby was 3 months younger than her brother, she said, "I just knew... my brain is pretty smart.

Elise's prayer from the other night:
Dear God, thank you for Momma, Papa, Elise (that's me), Mattias and Seven. What do you look like God? Are you an angel? Do you have a beard? Do you have short hair? Oh well, I guess I'll find out when I die. Amen.

How do you not burst out laughing at that???

-I like your new glasses Momma, you look fierce!

All I can say about that one is my child as no idea who Tyra Banks is, and I have nary a clue where she heard it from. When I asked her where she had heard the word "fierce" from, she said, "I just made it up!"

Lady of the flies

You know how some people have a love/hate relationship with things? I have that with insects. Except that it's mostly hate/hate. Especially flies. I loathe them.

Unfortunately, I seem to have a little animal rights activist who majors in the welfare of flies on my hands. I am not authorized to harm flies in any way. In fact, she names the flies that surreptitiously sneak their way in to our house. Yup... she names them.

As in, "Mom, I haven't seen Sally around lately... did you do something to her?"

Or, "Don't hurt Elaine, she's my friend!"

Sigh. I've got to arrange some more play dates for that girl.

Anyway, as much as I would love to flyswatter the little winged menace back whence it came, all the while humming the Circle of Life, I refrain for Elise's sake.

Because years from now, I don't want her telling her therapist about how I used to kill her friends.

Having a bit of an identity crisis

Not me. This blog.

I started it to be a dumping ground for the crazy that runs through my brain. Often I would litter it with posts about Elise. After Elise's diagnosis and the birth of Mattias, I find it harder and harder to find the time to post anything here anymore.

That makes me sad.

Writing has always been an outlet for me, and the written word helps me to express myself in a way that I cannot do through any other medium. For me it's never been about readership, comments or feedback (though it is always fun when I do get a comment or two). It's therapy; cheap and readily available for when I need it.

The main problem is time. Life is busy. Carving out a few minutes in a day to cobble together a post is hard. Especially with my attentions divided between this blog and my other one. When I look through my drafts folder, I see so many unfinished posts; lonely and forgotten like the awkward kids standing against the wall at a dance, waiting for their turn to come.

So the new year has me pondering what exactly I should do with this old dumping ground of crazy. And while I realize that this post does nothing but verbalize what's been knocking around in my brain over the last few months, it sure does feel good to get it out.