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Batman vs ponies

This time next week I'll have a 4 year old. Tempus fugit. A year from now I'll have a kindergartner. 

We went to a lovely Christmas in July party on Sunday afternoon where the kids got to take home a Christmas-wrapped party favor. Boy child got a vinyl Batman doll (holding a sharp, pointy bat boomerang). He lovingly refers to it as Robo. Girl child got a set of pink, blue, and white ponies with purple and pink hair, a comb, and a hair clip. She now falls asleep holding the ponies. Curses.

This morning, Robo (Batman) is in a house made of large interlocking blocks. If you knock on the front door, you'll soon find that Robo lives in said house with his dad...who is actually a bottle of pretend maple syrup who officially belongs to a set of play food. The roof of Robo's house is an old Nancy Drew hardcover. Those of you of a certain age probably remember the yellow covers with the spooky illustration on the front.

And because Robo has a rockin house, the girl child asks me to use blocks to build a house for the ponies. I was not the one who built the Original House For Ponies last evening (I was roasting coffee), so I lament that I cannot. Or, rather, I do not have the skills or design plans. Perhaps boy child could demonstrate? Which he does. Ponies now have a tower (vaulted ceilings?) that falls down due to poor architectural planning by the soon-to-be-4-year-old. Though he does an excellent job explaining the concept. I now offer to pick up my given task, but girl child simply takes over. She will do it Myself. Don't interrupt, dad!

Meanwhile, the boy is now "a skunk" and screams, "my stinky butt is going to stink you!!!!!!" Work is abandoned on the pony residence while both the proponents of Batman and the loyal followers of pretty ponies eat nectarine.

"What can I do about my nectarine fingers, daddy?" says Cole.

"What do you mean? Why don't you go get a wipe and clean your hands?" I ask.

"No, but I mean how do we get a wipe?" he replies.

"Walk over to the cabinet. Open it. Open the container. Wipe your hands," I say.

"Oh, ok."

I eventually find the wipes sitting on the dining room floor and the door to the cabinet wide open. Note to self, next time don't forget to add reminder about putting the wipes away when hands are clean.


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