Bobby is helping me

Bobby wants to help me with this blog. Since he's 3 1/2 years old, his help consists of poking me with a baby bottle brush and leaning on my left arm while I type. Oh, yeah, he also provides 90 % of my material. Baby Jon provides 8%, and husband Jim provides 1%. The other 1% is a scathing criticism of modern American values.

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Highlights of 2012, so far

Jon has taken to calling his brother "Mate". Jon: "I'm going to start cursing in Italian.  Uno, dos, tres..." Love it when I wake up from a nap and Robert comes in like a large puppy and cuddles and says, "your breath smells like some kind of cheese." Jon to Jim: You have been deleted by the moderator. "What is love Oh baby, don't hurt me Don't hurt me no more" Robert, in the shower. Robertism #1: I'm going to get naked. Don't you want to see me in all my glory? Consensus: Been there, done that. Robertism #2: The other night at dinner, Robert asked Jon burger could have a bite of his burger. Jon said no. He then sang (to the tune "Imperial March"), are you going to eat that burger? Jon did not yield. It was a good burger. As Jim was cutting into the rhubarb pie, he said "This looks a lot like chicken pot pie." "I'm glad it's not. I hate chicken," said Robert. "And
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Robert ran into the bathroom and yelled, "Mommy, get Hannah away." Of course, I was in the shower, so I didn't quite catch what he said. I couldn't imagine our cat Hannah doing anything in anyway to provoke Robert. She's spent the last few years huddled under couches and beds, and is finally comfortable enough with him to stay in the same room, curled up in her basket. So I go see what's the matter, and the cat is sprawled out on the floor looking very comfortable. "Robert, what's the matter? Hannah's not bugging you." "What's Hannah doing? Why isn't she in her basket?" he said. "What's she doing? She's all stretched out and comfortable." I realized the child must never have seen the cat actually relaxed before.
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