This morning, Charlie gets up and eats First Breakfast with the girls. Applesauce and something else, I don't really remember. He goes off to play.
After I take the girls to school, Charlie is back in the kitchen. Pointing at the refrigerator and saying, "Door. Open."
Dowlan opens the fridge. Charlie says, "No. Up." so Dowlan opens the freezer. It becomes clear that Charlie is after ice cream.
Daddy, being a sucker for a cute grin, gives him a tiny bowl. Second Breakfast
I do the dishes, get the toys picked up and realize that I am starving. So I make myself a Toaster Strudel.
Charlie's cat-like hearing detects the sound of the freezer opening. He insists on sitting on the counter, monitoring the toaster. He waves his hands over it, saying, "Hot!", turns the knob and pushes the button. "Button!" he announces.
He claps when I get it out. I am applying the icing and his finger keeps dipping in. I get him down and he runs to the table, pulls out a chair and climbs in. He points to the spot on the table where he wishes me to set the food.
I try to eat. "NO! Here!" he insists, so I get out a second plate and apportion four bites of my 1.9 ounce breakfast. He finishes his Mid-Morning Snack off quickly, then signs More! More!
There are no more. I show him the empty box. He makes a sad face, then tries to stick his head inside. He goes back to the table, sits at his chair and patiently awaits the food that he just knows will appear.
Inspired, I make a piece of white toast, smear jam on one half, fold it over and trickle the remaining strudel icing on top. He eats his Elevensies with an hour to spare.
Then he grabs my finger and points to the ground. I don't see anything. He drops to all fours and does his puppy impression. Then he hops up, grabs my finger and points to the ground. I begrudgingly drop to my knees and am suddenly reminded that my left knee is missing much of its skin. He gets down and crawls after his small plastic basketball. When I don't immediately follow, he turns around with this, "I'm waiting!" look. I follow.
He gets the ball in his mouth and then makes it clear that he would like me to bite it as well. Tug-of-war commences. He starts giggling so hard that he forgets to chomp and I claim a small victory. He decides that game is over and stands. I stand and he points me back to the ground. He picks up the ball and throws it, commanding me to "FETCH!" I comply.
My knee is killing me at this point, so I try to crawl on hands and feet. No dice. I try to slide and scoot. He's not having it. I turn on the Roomba in hopes that he will adopt it as an alternate pet. No way. (Have I mentioned the clear differences in his imitations of dogs and cats? It isn't just the noises--he has the demeanor of each down pat.)
I fetch. Then I fetch some more. Finally, he is distracted by The Disney Channel. God bless television.
At long last, Daddy comes home from his job interview. Charlie, inspired, grabs Dowlan's finger and leads him to the fridge, pointing. It is, after all, 11:15.