Summer is bad for blogging.

So my son is a toddler. I don't mean this in the sense that he is a walker, well now he's a jumper and furniture-flier-offer. I mean it in the sense that we have EPISODES. Lots of them. A recent day:

Graham finds a red permanent marker while Dad is in the bathroom and manages to hit 5 doors, the hallway, the floor, two couches (cushions and arms mind you), the wood coffee table and his entire face. Mom yells. A lot. The rest of the day Graham says, "Only paper, momma. Only paper." Three hours later he would appear to be asleep in his room. All is quiet. Then there is a loud shriek. We rush in to find Graham standing in the crib, palms outspread and terrified. "Momma I peed!" But what it is is poop. G likes to keep his hands in his diaper, but didn't anticipate that if he pooped he'd have *that* to contend with. I imagine in his anxiety about what to do he frantically wiped his hands on everything. It appeared that way.

Since then, two more instances of pee or poop in the bed, the produt of having totally removed his diaper in the night. It's such fun.

I routinely am told, "Be quiet Momma! Too LOUD!!!" but also occasionally get to hear the heart-melting, "So proud of you momma." He wakes in the middle of the night to belt out, "Bob the Builder! Can we fix it? Bob the Buillder! Yes we can!" and a very breakneck version of "Rock-A-Bye Baby."