Ah, yes, I said when I started this blog that I would refrain from TMI. Too Much Information. But something happened the other day that I cannot stop laughing about.

Here’s a little lot of back story:  I am a mother of three. As most people with two kids find out, you have less time for everything with your second child. With Chi, I wrote in his baby book every day. I took pictures of him every day. I diligently took videos of him. I sent thank you notes complete with pics of Chi using whatever the gift was. I remembered appointments and played with Chi on the floor. I cleaned the house and did the laundry. Chi’s clothes were in order and ironed if needed. Chi stayed cleaned and perfectly coiffed. I never had one of those instances where we were out in public and he was grimy, sticky and snotty. He was always wiped, polished and buffed. He always smelled fantastic. I sent Christmas cards to everyone I had an address for. Hand written and addressed, mind you.  I had pictures taken of him professionally (that I actually mailed out to my entire christmas list with hand written notes) every three months until he was one year old then every six months until he was two then every year after that until he was 5. After age three, all of his portraits include his sister.

Along came Pynni, I wrote in her baby book occasionally, at least enough to get the milestones down. I sent some thank yous but never with pictures. I sent Christmas cards, but the addresses were printed on the envelopes and I merely signed them. I took pictures in bursts and video very rarely. The child was still clean and brushed and polished because she’s a girl for crying out loud and she has to look her best. Her clothes were always matching and she was always dressed with matching accessories. Chi’s wardrobe was not ignored either. I took her to get her portrait taken professionally every three months, etc, the same as Chi. Sometimes those photo sessions even included Chi. I occasionally forgot appointments, my house was no longer immaculate and the laundry would pile up for over a week before I would get it done sometimes. I played on the floor occasionally, but mostly I spent my time keeping Chi out of the myriad things he was king at getting into.

Along came Pieces, I have a baby book for him. I have not written in it. I haven’t sent one single thank you since he was born. I write them occasionally, but can’t find the stamps because my house, once paragon of order and temple of cleanliness, is a certifiable disaster. The organization is almost totally shot (except for the kitchen and my closet and my bookshelves and dvd/blu-rays and itunes orders itself, thank God). I take pictures if I think about it ,which sadly, happens less than I would like. Rhys had his picture taken professionally every three months for the first year and once since then. He’s almost 4. My children will spend all day in the their pajamas. I DID NOT, heretofore, DO JAMMIES ALL DAY. EVER. On the weekends, it is not unheard of for my kids to wear the same clothes from sun-up to sundown both Saturday and Sunday. They may smell good, but often as not, they look like little ragamuffins. Outfits, except for Pynni have gone by the wayside. I buy neutral pants and varying shirts for the boys and skip the outfits. Pieces has some of Chi’s stuff handed down to him. Those are the only outfits he has and that will end after 4T.

So you see. I spend much of my time bemoaning the fact that I have no time. Back injuries aside, I have not spent as much time hanging out with my individual kids as I would like. Chi, for reasons mentioned in other places on my blog, takes quite a bit of my attention and time. Pynni is so well-behaved and so quiet most of the time that you don’t even know she’s there. She also plays very well with Pieces and they keep each other occupied. Until this year, when Pynni started kindergarten, I had not spent any time at all with Pieces just by himself. He doesn’t have a whole lot to say around the other kids and until school started, he was basically a Pynni mimic. He talked like her, acted like her, did every single thing she did, just as she did it. If she tripped over a toy walking through the living room, so did he. Then school started. Pieces and school is a whole other post, but suffice it to say that he is a different kid without his siblings around.

I cannot get him to shut up.

He talks and talks and talks. He sings and dances and tells stories and plays alone quite imaginatively. Like a boy. He doesn’t play house and dress up by himself. He plays with blocks and cars and action figures. Chi never played with blocks or action figures so Pieces did not pick this kind of play up from him. Pieces plays in his own way. He has his own way of saying things. His favorite words are: cool, cute, and nussing (nothing). I have found that he may very well be my favorite three-year old. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy this age with my other kids. I’m just enjoying it with Pieces more.

So, here’s the story I wanted to tell.

I had ordered some bras online and opted to pick them up in the store nearest me to save on shipping (read: free) and I could try them on at the store so that I could exchange or return them immediately if they didn’t fit. Pieces wanted to come with me because he likes to go whenever someone is going. We get suited up for cold weather and head out. I can’t listen to music because Pieces has a lot to say, and for whatever reason, he talks exceptionally quietly in the car. So I listen to him, and understand maybe, a third of what he says because when he gets going, he is impossible to understand. I tell him to open his mouth wider when he talks (hey, it works with Chi) and he just continues talking at that rapid pace. We get to the store and we walk around for a minute looking at the sights. Pieces is astounded by the sheer volume of clothing and the monstrous mannequins that are sprinkled throughout the store. Now is the time on Sprockets when we talk at the top of our lungs. I gently explain that we are inside and there is no reason to yell. It changes almost nothing, although he says, “Yes, ma’am.”

We make our way back to the checkout counter and accost a sales associate. She gets my box of bras and shows me into a dressing room. Pieces is astounded by the “three mirrors!” And counts his reflection at the top of his lungs over and over. He talks about the couch (read: bench) in the dressing room and laments the fact that he’s never been here before (he has). His volume remains high as he crouches down by the door and peers underneath it. The view is that of the room the dressing rooms line. The door directly across from ours is a closet so he isn’t peeking into anybody’s personal time. He takes up a commentary of what he sees outside our room. “There’s a man in a chair with wheels! It’s cool!” And on and on. Finally, he becomes agitated and stands up. “That woman,” he says loudly, “was looking at me.” I say, “Well, you were looking at her.”

Now I’ve opened my box of bras and they are the kind that have formed foam cups. I pull one out and Pieces says, “OH!! BOOBS!!!” As if that explained everything.

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