What made me smile today: Finding a pair of tiny Barbie high heels next to the bin of adult-sized shoes in my bedroom.

What made me laugh: Remembering that it was Anthony who was last to wear those tiny Barbie high heels.

What a joy it was to wake up on a rainy November morning and find not one …

… but two opening buds on Cera’s rose bush. Who says it’s autumn?

 

Cera: Look, Dad, pine needles.

Jerry: And what kind of tree do pine needles come from?

Cera: Christmas trees!

Me: So, are you excited for Halloween?

Anthony: Yeah. But no one’s going to be scared of me.

Me: You’re probably right. Spider-Man isn’t very scary. But no one will be afraid of Cera either. She’s going to be a butterfly.

Anthony: Butterflies can be scary.

Me: When?

Anthony (in his most menacing voice): When they turn into monster butterflies!

Anthony has reached the age when anything and everything that has to do with dinosaurs is cool. So a lot of our conversations lately have revolved around the biggest dinosaur ever or the smallest dinosaur ever or the smartest dinosaur ever. (Yes, apparently there is a “smartest” dinosaur – the Troodon – at least according to my children via information obtained from PBS’ “Dinosaur Train.” As Cera put it – in her you-should-already-know-this voice – “He had a really big brain for his size, Mom.”)

So, this afternoon, on our drive to the library, talk once again turned to our prehistoric pals. Today’s topic: creatures that lived at the same time as dinosaurs.

“Were there men?” Cera asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Women?”

“No.”

“Girls?”

“No.”

“Boys?”

“No.”

“Harpies?”

“Harpies?” I repeated. “What’s a harpy?”

I mean, I’ve heard the word “harpy” before – to describe a not-so-nice woman – but I was hoping that wasn’t how my daughter was using it.

“You know, a harpy. Half-woman, half-bird? But it can only be a woman,” Cera explained.

“Where did you learn about harpies?” I asked.

“Warcraft,” she said.

Wow, she really is learning something from video games.

I think maybe I should brush up on my Greek mythology, if I have any hopes of keeping up with my precocious daughter.

This afternoon, I was momentarily taken aback when Anthony told me that for snack, he wanted a banana. And not just because he was asking for fruit while his big sis was chowing down on a pile of Twisted Cheetos. No, I was rendered temporarily speechless because he asked for his banana “monkey-style.”

Monkey-style? What the heck is monkey-style?

Lucky for me, it only took a few seconds for my built-in preschooler translator to kick in. This, my friends, is a peeled banana:

And this is a banana monkey-style:

Any questions?

Three weeks ago, I was thrilled to find “Dino-Soccer,” the sequel to Lisa Wheeler’s “Dino-Hockey,” on display at our local library. Last Christmas, Anthony – well, the whole family, in fact – fell in love with this picture book, which combines Ant’s two greatest loves – hockey and dinosaurs, and we were hoping Wheeler wasn’t just teasing in “Dino-Hockey’s” final sentences when she wrote: “Buy your tickets! Don’t delay. Dino-Soccer starts today.”

“It just came in this morning,” the children’s librarian told me as I expressed my enthusiasm about the book at the check-out counter.

Anthony was at preschool, but Cera and I read “Dino-Soccer” right there in the library parking lot. And we weren’t a bit disappointed. Cera suggested that we hide the book for a few days until our turn as mystery readers at Anthony’s preschool. And although it was hard to not share our excitement about the book, it was fun to surprise him, along with his classmates.

“Dino-Soccer” became an immediate favorite for Ant, and we’ve already read it at least a dozen times. But today, when I checked my e-mail, there was a notice from the library. “Dino-Soccer” is due for return.

“No!” Anthony howled as I attempted to sneak the book into our library bag without him noticing. “We can’t take back ‘Dino-Soccer’!”

“But we have to share the book with other kids,” I explained.

His bottom lip popped out. But he managed to hold it together.

“I know,” I said. “Why don’t we ask Santa to bring us a copy of ‘Dino-Soccer’?”

“We can’t ask him,” Ant replied.

“Why not?” I asked.

In a near-perfect imitation of his big sister, Ant put his hands on his hips and gave one of those Mom-you-are-so-stupid-but-I’ll-take-the time-to-try-and-explain-this-to-you sighs. “Because,” he said, in an exasperated tone, “Santa doesn’t have a cell phone.”

I shook my head and laughed, wondering whatever happened to a good old letter to Santa.

Oh wait. That might not work in Anthony’s world either. Because I’m sure Santa doesn’t have e-mail.

Tonight, Cera and Anthony were putting together their U.S. map floor puzzle when Cera realized a piece was missing.

“Mommy,” she said, “where’s the guitar finger state?”

She nodded in approval when I handed her this piece, which I’d found on one of the living room shelves.

I can already see the new signs at the state line: “Welcome to Tennessee – the Guitar Finger State.”

Last week was extremely tight financially, so I tried my best to avoid the grocery store (I’m one of those shoppers who will drop in for a gallon of milk and come out with $40 worth of cereal, granola bars and fruit snacks “because they were on sale” – thus, my overstocked pantry).

So, when we ran out of orange juice – Anthony’s beverage of choice – at midweek, I resisted the pull of Harris Teeter and tried to satisfy Ant’s thirst with Crystal Light and chocolate milk. I let him drink juice boxes, which are usually reserved for school, the pool and long-distance car trips, and even split a Coke with him one afternoon at lunch.

It wasn’t flying.

“Have you gone to the grocery store yet?” he asked on morning two without OJ.

“No,” I replied. “I’ll go as soon as I get paid.”

Ant heaved a big sigh and shook his head.

Then, looking directly into my eyes, he said, “You’re not a very good mom.”

Ouch.

Needless to say, there’s now a large carafe of orange juice is our refrigerator. Because I wouldn’t want to have my parenting skills called into question again over something as simple as an absence of OJ.

Priceless: The look on Cera’s face when Anthony informed her: “Today, I peed in a bag for the first time. During carpool.”

Pleased: The look on Anthony’s face as he made this declaration.

Worried: The look on my face when I realized how much Anthony enjoyed peeing in said bag and that this could become a daily occurrence.