T-Bot: Mommy I am going to paint this paper, all over. And then I will put it on the windshields of all the cars. When it rains it will turn into a rainbow! Then it will be really cool!

The Mommy: T-Bot, I don’t think it will turn into a rainbow, it will just be a big slushy mess.

T-Bot: But that’s Art, Mommy. You don’t understand. It’s Art.

Artistic ambitions seemingly thwarted, he proceeds to the back yard, where experiments with a cardboard box and a hosepipe soon create a huge pile of brown pulp.

Later, the Wictor wanders out and with a “OOK Mama! Poopoo!” transforms the experiment into another, more squashed, work of art, which we are then prohibited by all from clearing away.

Until it dries and starts to smell like its namesake, then the Daddy gets mad, ignores all protests and washes it down the drain. 

With parents like us, none of them will likely grow up to be the next Damian Hirst. But in the meantime, we don’t have a yard which smells like poopoo. I think I can live with myself. 

There is something about third children. They benefit a lot from the experiences and interactions of the other two. Take The Wictor for example. 

This morning as we were driving home down the main drag, he kept up a running commentary from the back seat. Translated: 

Look Mama! Wal-Mart!

Look Mama! Blockbuster!

Look Mama! Supermarket!

Look Mama! Macdonalds!

Look Mama! Target! 

(Oh, and he recognizes Toys R Us and Party City too). 

As The Daddy put it: “It seems that we are solidly entrenched in the middle class”.

I choose to tell you this, and not all about how he recognizes 22 out of 26 letters of the alphabet, can sing the Thomas the Tank Engine song from start to finish, and is speaking in up to 10 word, grammatically correct sentences.  Because I have a First and a Second child too, and I know that they all become brilliant at their own pace.

For more on Brag Hags (FYI, IRL I try not to be one, to the point where all my friends probably think my children are thick) see this.

This morning I decided to do something about my wardrobe crisis. So I scooped up The Wictor and the two of us set out for a morning of sensory play.

I am not kidding, The Wictor adores clothes shopping! He loves to caress the fabrics, wrap himself up in the long dresses and hide under the racks. He points to and names the different colors, and gets a lot of exercise running up and down the aisles. If there is a rack of underwear, sorry, lingerie, he will point to the bras and call out “Milkies!” in his best Embarrass-Mommy-In-The-Department-Store voice. Of course, we only shop at places which tolerate children, and specifically ones where the staff don’t get all snooty when you lose one. A child that is…

Well, there are a lot of aisles in those places.

I had originally planned to take a trip to New York and Company, for some budget shopping a la Tootsie Farklepants. But the nearest NY&Co is “In Town” and I ran out of time. So I decided to start at Saks 5th Avenue. Oh, alright, I decided to start at (Saks) Off 5th (Avenue). Is it my fault that the only local mall is an Outlet Mall?

It was there that I tried on a dress that actually made me look good in a dress.

I wanted that dress!

I should have bought that dress, especially at $99.99, down from $400. I stood there for a while and imagined myself wearing it. I imagined myself walking down to the swimming pool or the post box wearing it, hanging out in the yard with the kids while still wearing it, sitting in the sand at the beach while totally looking amazing in it, and for the finale,  getting various unidentifiable splodges of kiddy food all over it. On the white silk dress. Which made me look very good.

So we set off in search of pastures new. Inexplicably, The Wictor refused to even set foot in Banana Republic (Outlet) or J Crew(Outlet). I had to trust his judgement on that one. So you know where we ended up? TJ Maxx, where I bought two shirts. 

So wardrobe crisis temporarily averted, and for a total cost of $35. I am soooo cheap. 

This evening I was sitting in the office, talking to The Daddy with The Wictor on my lap. In came T-Bot and asked for apple juice. While he was explaining to me his cunning plan for drinking his apple juice with not one but 7 straws (”it’s an experiment, today I am doing experiments…”), The Wictor disappeared. His place on my knee was promptly claimed by the T-Bot, no longer so worried about apple juice now that he could claim a cuddle. 

Moments later I heard strange grunting, straining and wailing noises coming up the hallway. Concerned that the baby was stuck somewhere, I tried hard to remove T-Bot from his perch to go investigate. As I finally managed to boot him off (he has become quite heavy all of a sudden) The Wictor appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily and pointing urgently to the door. 

So I went to the door and looked. And there, just outside the office, was a full 1/2 gallon (1.89L) bottle of apple juice. Distance carried from the kitchen cupboard to the office by a too-small, underweight 22 month old? Around 35 ft.

He has the persistence but not quite the reasoning skills yet - he came the long way around. 

The Wictor is getting all grown up. The Baby has become a little Boy, sob sob.