Saturday Morning Sillies

Dixie and Melody find themselves in a heated debate over if Dixie was born in 2003 or 3002. One of the ornaments is clear glass and has the year of Dixie's birth on it; they just aren't certain whether they should be reading it forwards or backwards.

Speaking of the tree, it took its first dive yesterday. Charlie was looking out the window behind it and backed into it. He's very polite in his destruction, however. He turned to it and apologized saying, "Towwy, Twismas Twee."

Other things he says in amazingly cute ways? I love to hear him say Schrodinger's name. I have spent way more time than one should trying to figure out how to write that out. The closest I've come is Schwone-jer. It's as cute as calling his sisters Ditsee and Meldee.

Melody is on the couch with a tablet of blank paper, reading it as a book. She just proclaimed the beginning of Chapter Three. I wish I could hear it well enough to hear the story, but, at the important parts, she gets very quiet and mysterious.

Speaking of life's mysteries, I tried to call and get some cheaper telecom services by canceling and downgrading and instead ended up with more reliable VOIP, faster internet and this pimped-out cable package with triple the number of channels, including all these shows available on-demand for slightly less than the price of the bare minimum of cable needed to have the basic internet we need to job hunt (and blog). As my Uncle Gary says: they make you buy it. You may not need it, you may not even want it, but they make you buy it.

As I was writing this, Charlie found half a bag of popcorn. It was left over from the movie and babysitting friends night he slept through, and declared it his. The girls were making a game of it--one would distract him and the other would reach in and grab a piece. I put a stop to it and had them apologize, explaining that, if they had only asked, he would have been made to share with them. Charlie is sitting on the couch, his little body wrapped protectively around the bag, shouting at anyone who dares approach. "You make Tchawie Twy! (cry) It is aaaaaawl Tchawie's popcown!"