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Fox and the Great ‘Ricket Round Up
This one. My last. And yet somehow a new beginning. He sleeps with twelve or more matchbox cars under his pillow. When he finds a blue truck that has escaped its under pillow hideout, he scoops it up and laughs. He reaches under the pillow, stashes it safely and pats the hard collection he’s got going on. He’s a little obsessive. Along with the hoarding, you know. Right now he’s all about “rickets”. Which are actually crickets. Which are actually grasshoppers. And he’s been spending his days combing the field in pursuit of the camouflaged creatures. He’s relentless – he is. With a little help from his sisters and…
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the early stages of a TLC television program
There must be something about the style of parenting that Kevin and I employ at this house. I don’t know exactly where to point the finger. But it appears that with our last two children, we are creating hoarders. Finn has spent four years obsessed with carrying things. Piles of things. Little things. Soft things. Unimportant things. Stashed in homemade bags. Loaded into her metal grocery cart. (Perhaps the grocery cart purchase only added fuel to the fire.) And now her teeny tiny brother is following her lead. The kid hoards everything. He’s not even that particular about his stash – the rules seem to be simple. 1. The items…
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Wilde Words.
Maybe it’s because he’s my baby. Or maybe it’s because he’s legitimately adorable. (That’s the one I’m going with.) But lately it seems that Otto has become the golden child at our house or something. There isn’t a human being residing under this green-shingled roof that is not completely in love with the two-year-old who stomps up the steps in hand-me-down black cowboy boots while wearing plaid leg warmers on his arms. Remember how he was pretty much a completely non-verbal family member? (The only one of his kind, as a matter of fact.) And remember how I decided to not be worried because I knew it would all work…
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rule 62 of the handbook no one has written.
There ought to be a rule. Number 62 in the parenting handbook or something. Any words muttered by you or your spouse between the hours of midnight and six a.m. cannot be held against you. The world seems dark and the situation seems dire when your two-year-old son wakes up at three thirty-six a.m. His room is upstairs. Your room is downstairs. Your bed is warm. The covers are tight. The hallway is long and the steps are cold. You lie in bed and pretend you just don’t hear him, hoping your spouse will take this round for you. It’s an absolutely unfair advantage when said crying two-year-old chooses to…
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more than it seems.
It might look like a basic five gallon bucket to you. But to one small boy, this bucket is all he needs. Astride this orange beauty, he’s a barrel rider, a cowboy, a race car driver. Once he hops off his trusty steed or jumps out of the driver’s seat, he turns the bucket right side up and begins to go fishing. Any stick and any string will do. A belt tied to a lincoln log. A sister’s hair band wrapped around a drumstick. And when it’s time to come to dinner after a long day on the range and a few hours at the fishing pond and several laps…
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And He Speaks His Name . . .
My littlest man has been slow to speak. It’s just not his thing. So when I was changing his diaper the other day and he suddenly said a word that sounded exactly like his own first name, I ran for the phone right away. I had to shoot a quick little video to send to Kevin so he could share in the magical moment. OttoSpeak from Lacey Keigley on Vimeo. Now that he can say his own name, Otto is all about himself. In fact, his name is now apparently the answer to any question a stranger may ask him. “Hi, little fellow,” says the man at the check out…
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why the bread was burned
I placed the bread in the oven. As I reached for the timer, I heard a sloshy noise and looked toward the hall. I saw my two-year-old son, soaking wet, standing in the hall making noises and pointing back towards the bathroom. I cautiously approached the scene. The sink’s stopper was pulled. The water was flowing over the edge. Otto had tried to clean up the mess himself with two towels. (I was mildly impressed.) Otto had overflowed the sink with water to wash his big-wheeled trucks. And his shirt. And his socks. And the floor. And somehow the mirror. But hey, he was prepared. I looked at his wee…
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In Praise of the Wilde One
Otto Fox Wilder is definitely the baby of a family of six children. He has about three mothers and each of those moms has a distinctly different parenting style. But this little man is endlessly entertaining lately. He’s still loud, but he’s funny. He sings along with music we play. Right now his favorite tunes apparently are “Pirate’s Gospel” and Mumford & Sons “The Cave”. He tells the same joke over and over. It goes like this – “Dada!” (Wait for Daddy’s response.) “Ha.Ha.Ha.” Still no progress in the potty training department. (Although being the sixth child, I have learned that, for our house, rushing that skill is not the…
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the cute face.
Believe it or not, this is the face he makes when he says, “Awwww. So cute.”
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A walk in the park.
When you’re two and your name is Wilde Fox a walk in the park is never a walk in the park. First, there’s the desire for control. For complete and utter control. The directing and the wishing and the veryvery underdeveloped verbal communication skills. Next comes the demanding and the pulling and the desperate breakdown that gets him almost less than nowhere. Then, ultimately, a measure of submission is reached. A settling of sorts. A coming to terms with reality.
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the sounds of summer.
Summer’s here. And its name is Trouble. Well, sort of. Camp has started. And I feel . . . insane. exhausted. sleepy. unable to properly punctuate my words. I think there is a continual buzzing in my ears of something. Oh wait – that’s the steady sound of my youngest son’s constant displeasure at all things. Like the air that surrounds him. And like every food item I place upon his usually-circular food holder. MmmmHmmmm. That’s the kind of life I am living right now. The kind of life where when I acquired a half hour of quiet time at our home, I retreated to our closet. And spent thirty…
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birthday boy. otto fox wilder.
This weekend, we celebrated our adorable, exuberantly loud, youngest son’s second birthday. And his birthday present was the world’s (okay, maybe just the neighborhood’s) largest-ever sandbox. We’re talking six tons of sand, people. Six tons. Which means we were not only celebrating Fox turning two years old, but also celebrating the last day I will officially know what a sand-free home feels like. So if you are planning a visit to our home soon, bring play clothes. Because you are sure to get messy. ‘ Oh, little Wilde Fox, happy second birthday sweet man.
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no.
Otto Fox Wilder does not say a lot of words. (Which is why I was so impressed this week when he said the names of two of our family’s friends – Walter and Jamal.) But one word he does have an exceptional fondness for is the word “no”. It’s his first response for almost everything. Untitled from Lacey Keigley on Vimeo.
