Ok, I'm not entirely sure why it would be "Version 5.0", but I do feel the need to share some of our more...interesting...stories from the last few weeks.
Timothy has clearly been watching far too much television. He seems to be addicted. He has a little one in his room that has a built-in VCR, so that Chris and I can occasionally watch grown up shows in the living room. However, he was watching it way too much, so Chris put the tv on a timer so it will only work at certain times of the day. The other evening, I was in my room getting ready for work when I heard him talking to himself in his room. "Oh, NOOOOOOO!" he exclaimed. "My tv won't work! Needs a 'verter box! Have to go to the 'verter box store and buy a 'verter box so my tv will work!" Apparently, PBS has really gotten through to him!
Gabe is discovering the joys of being a big brother. I mean, he already knew some of them, but it's really hitting home now that Timothy is getting older. Several nights ago, both boys were playing outside while Chris and I fixed dinner. Gabe came in, giggling, without Timothy. This is unusual because where Gabe goes, Timothy usually follows. "Gabe," I asked, "where is your brother?" Gabe feigned innocence. "Seriously, Gabe," I warned, "You'd better tell me where your brother is!" Gabe giggled again. "He's in the backyard," he answered. Not seeing Timothy out the window, I put on my you're-about-to-be-in-big-trouble-mister voice and asked again. Gabe finally lost it and began laughing hysterically. "I locked him in a box!" he gasped. Sure enough, a big plastic storage box next to the swing set was moving a lot, and there was a leg sticking out one side. Not to worry, Timothy was fine! He was mostly worried he was going to miss dinner.
We have also developed rather a preoccupation with our private parts around here. And before you get any naughty ideas, by "we" I mean Timothy. Mom and Dad kept the boys overnight last weekend so Chris and I could go out. Since Timothy has been potty trained, he has much easier access to...his parts. Mom told him, "Timothy, you need to stop touching your weewee." He looked at her calmly and said, "I'm not touching my weewee, I'm touching my balls!" I have no explanation or comment on this, except to say that his father and I did NOT teach him that word. And if Gabe knows anything about it, he's not talking.
Lastly, on a similar note, we were at the drug store, picking up our pictures today. The boys were getting a bit antsy in line, and I was tired of telling them to stop touching things so I told them to put their hands in their pockets. Clearly, this was a mistake. Gabe complied, but Timothy wailed, "But I don't HAVE pockets in these shorts!" Gabe was quick to the rescue. "Well," he reasoned, "just stick 'em in your pants, then!" Our cashier nearly fell over laughing. I told Gabe, "See, now she's going to go home tonight and tell all her friends that some kid told his brother to stick his hands down his pants!" Gabe thought about it for a moment and came back with, "Yeah, but at least she doesn't know our last name!" It's hard to argue with that kind of logic.