Anthony has a habit of noting each and every item that finds its way into our grocery cart, and if he’s not sure what I’ve pulled from a shelf or out of a cooler, he asks what it is. Today, the unknowns included shallots and a small carton of heavy cream.

Apparently, Ant quickly absorbed these new vocabulary words because, as he scanned the groceries and I bagged, he called out to me, “It’s not heavy, Mama.”

I turned to see him holding the carton of heavy cream over his head with one hand.

“See,” he said. “It’s light. I can lift it.”

Understanding  – and executing – Mommy math is crucial to a low-stress marathon grocery trip like the one Anthony and I are about to embark on. It’s simple, really. Just remember these equations to ensure a well-behaved preschooler:

However:

We’re working on a tight budget these days; however, $3.50 for a Happy Meal at the end of our shopping – “but only if you’re a good boy” – is a financial sacrifice I’m willing to make.

What is cute on a 6-year-old (i.e. blue nail polish) is not necessarily cute on a 33-year-old.

I look like I just got out of a really cold pool …

A few weeks ago, while attempting to put away my son’s clean laundry, I encountered this colossal mess.

Nearly every piece of Thomas train track – along with the accompanying engines – had been pulled from under his bed and scattered from one end of the room to the other.

Dozens of books had been tossed from their shelves. (”I couldn’t decide which one I wanted to read, Mama,” Ant would later explain to me.)

His tricycle and basketball net were overturned, and there were sheets of stickers everywhere.

The only part of the room that wasn’t in complete chaos was his car corner. And that most likely was because, with the rest of the mess, he couldn’t reach it.

It looked like his room had been ransacked. And while it doesn’t seem to bother Ant to live in his own filth, I feared for my safety as I attempted to reach his closet. So I set to cleaning.

That night, when Anthony padded into our room after spending several consecutive nights in his own bed, Jerry and I joked that he must have been trapped by the mess.

Our little joke became less funny – and seemingly more of a truth – in the coming nights, as we endured the kicking and arm thrashing of a restless 3-year-old. But last night was bliss. Cera slipped into our bed around sunrise, but Ant never made an appearance, and Mommy and Daddy got a good night’s sleep.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when, this morning, I realized that Ant’s room once again is a mirror image of the photos above.

So now I have a decision to make – do I want a clear path to grab diapers and put away pajamas, or would I rather share my bed only with my husband?

That’s a tough one.

A warning to future boyfriends who might consider breaking his sister’s heart:

Anthony’s already developing a mean right cross. And he’s not afraid to use it.

While Jerry and Anthony hit the driving range this afternoon, Cera and I built a small birdbath for our backyard. We started with a 10-inch clay pot and 10-inch saucer …

… to which Cera added some artistic touches, including this painting of a hummingbird drinking from a birdbath.

Finally, we added a few squirts of hot glue to hold it all together and – voila – a homemade watering and washing hole for our feathered friends.

… to the best dads I know: the father of my children …

… and my own Daddy.

I love you both!

All I wanted was a quick and easy Saturday lunch before heading to the pool.

There were turkey burgers and rosemary potatoes reheating in the microwave and buns under the broiler. I was just pouring drinks for Jerry and I – root beer for him, Diet Coke for myself – when … bam!

Followed by crying.

Real crying.

I ran to the living room to find Anthony with his hand covering his left eye. Underneath was this lovely bruise, already swelling …

“What happened?” I asked, as I scooped him up and grabbed an ice pack (I’m quickly learning that a freezer full of ice packs is a must for the mother of a 3-year-old boy). “I thought you were eating.”

“I was,” he sobbed. “And I fell off the couch.”

“You were just sitting there eating, and you fell off the couch?” I repeated back to him.

“Yes,” said my son, who is notorious for not sitting still while eating.

Since Jerry was helping a neighbor fix her waterline and Cera was in the bathroom, we’ll never know for sure what happened. But I imagine it involved Anthony standing on the couch, bending over to pluck a piece of hot dog from his plate and losing his balance, causing him to fall forward and hit his head on the TV tray from which he was eating.

Or, in preschool speak, he just fell off the couch while eating.

By the way, the bruise above the one beside Ant’s eye was not a result of today’s accident. He got that one earlier in the week from charging down the hallway and running headfirst into the folding doors that conceal our washer and dryer. There’s also a bruise on the other side of his head, which I’m pretty sure he got falling off our bed during a round of forbidden jumping. He claims he has no idea how it happened.

I think we should consider having Ant wear his hockey helmet all the time.

Translation: “What I like about kindergarten is recess, social centers and lunch.”

That’s my girl!