Brothers

"I'm going to go watch Aidan play Lego Star Wars!" Brennan yelled and jumped down from his chair at the kitchen table.

"Okay B." I replied and continued to make dinner.

A few minutes later, I heard Chris call my name quietly. I turned, followed the direction of his gaze and saw this:



This is how a little brother watches his big brother play a video game.

Mmmmmm... Blueberries

Unfortunately, I missed the shot of Griffin after he took those yummy blueberries and gobbed them onto his hair. It was a good look for him. But the before shot is pretty cute too.

Kids are Busy

The social whirl of life with kiddies is frantic. On Friday, we went from picking up Aidan at his Halloween party (way to go Aidan!) to dinner at our dear friends Dylan and Christine's house. (Otherwise known as the kiddies run wild so the adults can chat and then we serve them a not so home cooked meal of pizza fresh from delivery.)

Saturday morning was our neighborhood's Halloween party. The party was to commence with a parade of costumes around the neighborhood and then end up at our park. We arrived at the park, on time, but other than some party decorations saw not a soul. After a few minutes, it started to rain. It began with a gentle mist and evolved into a sideways sleet from hell. In frustration, I called Chris from my cell (he had Griffin nap duties at home) to ask him to read me the invitation again. Not surprisingly, I got the instructions wrong. The parade began at the other end of the neighborhood. We could see the string of balloons and useless umbrellas snaking their way around the streets as we stood under a gazebo (dry!) watching the fun. I have never been so glad to be wrong in my life.

Saturday afternoon was Aidan's last soccer game. After the game, the teams held a pizza party.

By the end of the day, I was beat. Wiped out from the social calendar of my children. I am lame. Exceptionally lame.

Aidan's Breakthrough

As we all know by now, Aidan adjusts slowly to new social situations. This extends to his willingness to attend his friends' birthday parties. He will only attend if I go too. And so I go. I watch enviously as the other moms and dads drop off their kiddies for some fun as I try to blend in with the backdrop and watch Aidan cavort with his friends. Sometimes just for fun, I imagine all the fun things I'd do with an extra two hours if Aidan would stay at the party without me. But the odds are stacked against me.

Until today. Today we had a breakthrough. Aidan was invited to one of his new classmate's house for an informal Halloween party. The classmate who invited him has been the boy that Aidan talks about incessantly day in and day out since they started school. I thought it was a sure thing that Aidan would want to go and stay at the child party. I was wrong. He wanted me to come too. Sigh.

Thankfully, his new friend has quite a gracious mother (a mom to three boys of her own) because she endured my presence (and Brennan and Griffin!) at the party. After an hour, I decided to roll the dice and take my chances. I told Aidan I had to leave to get his brothers to bed for naps. He shrugged, smiled and said, "I'm going to stay."

He's there now. Still there. Each time the phone rings, I jump, sure I am going to have to wake up Griffin and Brennan from their naps to rescue my hysterical child. But, nothing. My little boy is ready to have his own friends and his own parties. Hmmmm, he might be ready for this, but am I?

The Class Clown to Be

Brennan is our little jokester. Chris and I already imagine the calls from his future teachers decreeing Brennan as the class clown.

He was in banner Brennan form yesterday when I picked him up from school. His teacher giggled as she hugged him goodbye and I caught him telling her something about "poopy pants."

I looked at Brennan quizzically and asked, "You had an accident today, B?"

The teacher laughed, shook her head and said, "No. Brennan did great on the potty today. But the class thought they smelled a poopy diaper when we went on the walk and Brennan thought it was me."

"What?"

The teacher giggled again and with mirth in her eyes said, "Brennan turned to me and said: 'Miss Teri do you have some poopies in your pants? Are you the poopy pants?' The kids went crazy laughing. It was quite the hit." She laughed again along with Brennan.

Alrighty then. If the teacher doesn't mind my son dubbing her the poopy pants of the class, who am I to complain?

We headed out of school and into the parking lot. Each time we passed a car, Brennan looked at the car and said jokingly, "This is not your car."

"No, not our car." I agreed. We walked by another car. Brennan laughed and said, "This is not your car."

"You're right. Not our car."

We walked up to our car. "But this, B. this is our car," I said as I unlocked the car and opened the back door for him to climb inside.

Brennan smiles, shakes his head and insists, "No momma. This isn't your car."

"Yes it is B. This is our car."

He laughs, points at the wheel of the Explorer and says to me, "See those words on the tire, Momma? You know what they say? I know what they say. They say, Momma This Is Not Your Car."

Brennan dissolves into a fit of giggles as I explode with a full belly laugh. There is nothing quite like the humor of a two year old comedian. Poopy pants indeed.

Forever

I held Aidan snuggled in my arms and cuddled with him as we rocked back and forth. He had wrapped his arms tightly around my neck and played with my ponytail full of hair. After a moment of quiet he asked, "Mom, will you be my mom forever?"

I smiled, kissed his head and said, "Of course, honey. Forever."

He turned to look at me with a smile and said, "Promise?"

"I promise. Forever."

Forever.

Who is Training Who?

Chris and I have waged a war of potty training with Brennan. Potty training just wasn't going all that well. Brennan seemed to like his pull ups and would select, at random, two or three times a week to use the bathroom. It was frustrating as hell. I had sort of given up on the whole thing.

Thursday morning, I changed Brennan out of his pull up. He smiled at me and declared he had to use the potty. Okay, I agreed half heartedly as I accompanied him to do his business. After he finished, he washed his hands, smiled at me again and told me he was ready for underwear.

"What?" I exclaimed with unmotherly like encouragement and absolutely no singing of the Potty Power song which had gone out of favor weeks ago.

"I want to wear underwear today Momma." Brennan replied grinning.

"B, if you wear underwear, you really have to use the potty, okay?" I was not so fondly remembering cleaning pee and poop off the kitchen floor from several weeks ago. Since then, it was all pull ups all the time in our house.

"Okay," He agreed as I turned to run upstairs to snag some underwear in a forgotten drawer in his dresser. Before I got halfway up the stairs he shouted, "I want Cars underwear Momma. Okay? Cars underwear!"

I grabbed the underwear, assisted Brennan in getting it on and watched him prance about in an excited dance in his new undies. I was not a believer and I gave him at most, two hours, before someone was cleaning up urine off the floor.

Today is Tuesday. Brennan has not had one accident since he declared himself ready for underwear on Thursday morning. He has stayed dry during naps, overnight and all day long.

I haven't a clue. Just have not one little clue. Perhaps with my third child, I will forgo the training thing all together and just let him decide when he's ready for potty power instead. Do you think my children will miss my singing of the Potty Power tunes? Probably not.

U.S. Airways Sucks

On Thursday, I was Maine bound. Elated, I left for the airport eager for my first trip since September 2006 without my children. NO CHILDREN. Just me, my hubbie, room service and soft plushy beds. I handled the goodbye to the kiddies without a tear, but suffered later when I decided it would be great to pass the time watching the slideshow of family pictures Chris put on my new video IPOD. Bad tactical error. I sniffled through the abyss of security for a good half hour. (I should have chosen to catch up on my downloaded episodes of Gossip Girl instead. Video Ipod, I heart you.) But, after that emotional hiccup, I sailed to my gate eager to catch my flight and meet up with my darling hubbie in Portland, Maine.

How the gods of travel must have giggled as they saw me glide to my gate. Because they knew what I did not. They knew that U.S. Airways sucks ass. They knew that U.S. Airways has been tagged as U.S. Scareways by knowledgable travelers. They knew that U.S. Airways is, at its best, an abomination. U.S. Airways, I hate you. I really do. How much? Let me count the ways...

First, our flight was delayed for a mechanical problem. I greet mechanical delays as good news/ bad news scenarios. Yes, we are delayed, but hey - your airplane can, well fly and stuff when you do actually take off. After a half hour delay, we are boarded onto our flight. The obligatory take off greetings are exchanged, the plane door starts to close, and hold it! The pilot announces that our plane never made it into service for its annual inspection. And that means, the powers that be won't let us take off. We need a new plane. U.S. Airways isn't quite sure how, when or where they will find that new plane. But they want us all of the plane so they can figure it out. And off the plane we all go.

New plane? Hmmm, maybe three or four hours. It was at this point, I realized that not one of their employees uttered an apology for the circumstances. As we exited the plane, the attendant and pilot waved goodbye to us and told us to have a nice day. But, to actually apologize for the fact that, gee, we don't actually have a plane for you? Didn't happen. Not once. NONE.

I got in line at the gate to rebook my flight since the odds were sorely against my making my connection through NYC. I was second in line. As I waited my turn, I called Chris on my phone to alert him to my delay. I also shared my frustration with him and told him I wished I had just driven to Maine instead of flying. Basically, for the price of $250, I had just bought myself twelve hours at an airport when I could have driven to Maine for $50 in nine hours. And the pundits wonder why the airlines are going bankrupt?

My turn in line. I hand my boarding information to the gate agent, smile and tell him, I was headed for Maine. He does not acknowledge my presence beyond taking my ticket and typing furiously on the keys of his computer. He does not look at me. He does not express apologies for the circumstances. He does not say one word. After five minutes, he looks up at me, shrugs and says, "I can get you to Maine probably around nine tonight."

I smile and reply in an calm, even, but firm voice, "That's unacceptable. It is 11 a.m. I was supposed to arrive in Maine at 1:30. "

He glares at me, takes my boarding pass, throws it at me and yells, "I can't help you then."

I catch my boarding pass before it falls to the floor and in a surprised tone respond, "I don't particularly care for your tone or demeanor. I haven't raised my voice or even acted frustrated with you."

He shakes his head, points his finger at me and yells, "I won't help you okay? I heard you on the phone, complaining all about the airlines. So, yeah. I refuse to help you. You can just take yourself all the way back to the ticket counter if you want some help because I won't do it."

Wow. I was so shocked that I didn't know what to do. I was at the very last gate at the airport. So I ran all the way back through security, to the ticket counter, and got back in line (again). My hands were shaking. I had tears in my eyes. I just could not fuckin' believe that this had just happened.

After a few minutes in line, I caught the eye of a ticket agent and asked for help. I explained the situation. First, he argued the status of the plane. Because according to the ticket counter records, that plane had taken off. He argued with me as the agent next to him argued with two other passengers from my plane. It was like a comedy of errors. No, the plane did not take off. Yes, we were boarded. No, the plane was not inspected. Yes, they told us they have to find a new plane. No, we don't know when that would happen. Hi, ticket counter people, why do I have to explain this to you? YOU WORK FOR THIS AIRLINE. YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS. DON'T YOU PEOPLE TALK TO EACH OTHER? HUH? That's okay, we the passengers, we have nothing better to do than give you status updates on your flights. Nothing at all.

After the story was repeated a few times at the counter, the agents got considerably less hostile and disbelieving and much more efficient. But before he rebooked me he had to admonish me that, "I should have taken care of this at the gate."

I smiled, my hands shaking with the sheer effort of keeping myself calm, as I repeated my experience with the gate agent. Afte hearing my tale, his eyes widened and he said, "That's not right."

No. Not right at all. But I got rebooked! Hurray! I am now flying through Philly and I leave in fifteen minutes. My now nice ticket counter agent escorts me through security so I can attempt to make the new flight. Even with the escort, I still have to go through the metal dector and scanners. Unfortunately for me, the two elderly women ahead of me were the only people in the world who never heard of the whole ban on liquids thing. They had a backpack full of just lotions and creams and other liquidy type goos. One by one, the security guard removed their lotions and creams. And one by one, the elderly women complained and bemoaned over their lotions. The 3-1-1 rule was explained, in great detail, at least four times. After ten minutes of the great lotion debate, I knew I was going to miss my flight. Until the uprising behind me started to swell, and someone offered fifty bucks to the women if they would just throw out the lotions and get out of line already. (It wasn't me. I swear.)

After I cleared security I rushed to my new flight only to see the same jackass gate agent manning the gate for the flight to Philly. In a moment of true insanity, I decided to provoke him a bit. I walked up to him, smiled and told him in a calm, albeit slightly sarcastic tone, "I just wanted to let you know that the ticket counter was very helpful. And I arrive in Maine at 3 p.m. But, really, thanks for all your help. Really appreciate it."

He snarled at me and replied, "Yeah, they probably had to bump someone off a plane to get you into Maine and I just wasn't willing to do that for you."

I smiled at him again, leaned into the counter, and said, "And just so you know, I am already composing a letter to your airline about you and your antics. I would like your name."

He shook his head no.

"You won't give me your name?" I ask in disbelief.

He cross his arms, glares at me and yells, "No!"

"Fine, then I would like to see your identification."

And this is when he good and truly loses it. He grabs the id hanging by his neck and starts swinging it towards my face as he shouts, "You want identification? You want to see my id? Here's my id! Do you see it? Do you?"

I stand there speechless and he then points at me and yells, "You step back behind that line over there. I don't want you coming up here again."

Holy shit. Is this really happening? I manage to avoid him for the next three minutes until we board the flight. Once again, we board the plane, settle into our seats, have the customary take off warnings/greetings, only to be stopped again. Despite the aisles of empty seats, our puddle jumper plane is over the weight limit. They need to remove two people from the plane. After some cajoling and promises of free tickets, two people get off the plane and we take off.

Philly - here we come! During the flight, I notice several people ask our attendant for gate information. After several requests are made of her, she takes to the intercom to ask us to stop asking her because, well, she just doesn't know. She doesn't have any information on connecting gates or arrival gates so we just need to wait. I mention this because on my flight home this morning, the sweet attendant on my United flight took the time to walk up and down the aisle to give each person meeting a connecting flight their gate information. She also brought maps of the airport so we could find our gates. But don't you dare ask for that type of courtesy or kindness from U.S. Airways. Please.

I finally arrived in Maine - only three hours late. But after the hassle, the stress and the cost, my mantra is now - avoid the flight and just drive.

It was a lovely weekend though. Sleep, some room service, many a drink, lots of shopping and laziness. And the best part of all? My flight home was on United and not U.S. Airways. Thank God for small favors.

Good Morning

There is nothing in this world as challenging as trying to get yourself out of the house with children. Chris has been working at a furious pace, up and out before we all arise in the morning, leaving me to conquer one child on a bus, the drop off of the other two at daycare and me, dressed in a presentable fashion, hair and teeth brushed and not horribly late for work. It ain't easy.

This morning. I greeted the neighborhood in my bright red flannel pjs and red clogs as I waited with Aidan for the bus. Did I mention the unbrushed hair? I have become the mother the other kiddies talk about. Not in a good way.

I leave Griffin and Brennan happily playing as I attempt to do my "get ready for work in three minutes or less routine". (Sidenote: I love those magazine articles with fantastic tips for a make up routine in ten minutes or less! Please. Make up in ten minutes or less? Try ten seconds people. Ten minutes! I wouldn't know what to do with ten minutes.) Okay, I digress. Anyway. Three minutes or less, me getting dressed for work. As I get dressed I hear a car alarm repeatedly blasting from outside. I blame it on the neighbors. Three minutes later, I catch Griffin crawling around with my keys, repeatedly setting off my car alarm. Yep, not the neighbors.

One of Griffin's bottles for daycare explodes, leaving a mess of formula in its wake. I take the boys out to throw them in the car and my back doors won't unlock. Grrrr. I have to climb in the car from the front seat shifting around the three car seats shoved across our back seat to manually shove the doors open. I displayed a dexterity I never knew I possessed.

I just keep laughing. Just tell myself to just keep laughing. Somehow, it always seems to make it better. Kind of.

From the Mouths of Babes

Brennan: "Griffin has lots of teeth Momma. He has teeth on top and on the bottom."
Me: "I know. Isn't he so cute with his teeth?"
Aidan: "Hmmm, I think he looks like a beaver."

-------------------------------------------

Aidan gets off the bus today with a bright red ribbon pinned to his shirt. After I hug him hello, I read his ribbon which declares his opposition to "doing drugs."

"Wow, Aidan, great ribbon. Did you get that in school today?"

Aidan: "Mom, did you know that I don't have to do drugs?"

As I try to stifle outright and totally inappropriate laughter, I clear my throat and respond: "Good to know, Aidan. That's very important to remember."

Aidan nods his head yes, looks at me seriously and asks: "Mom, what are drugs?"

I respond with a full belly laugh. (I am so bad at this after school special parental stuff.)

----------------------------

And then later tonight, Chris and I wrangled the boys into their pjs for bed. Aidan looks at me and asks: "Mom, do you know what personal space is?"

My response? More hysterical laughter. Yes, I must work on my motherly demeanor.

First Steps

Griffin took his first steps today. He reached for me as he stood unsteadily on his chubbly little legs and hesitantly, slowly stepped once and then twice into my arms. His face held a combination of hesitation and awe as he toddled to me. His first steps. He repeated those same steps minutes later into Chris's arms.

With all of my boys, their first steps were always steps toward me. Steps into my awaiting, eager arms. But each time, it never fails, I always feel as if those first baby steps are moving away from me, rather than towards me.

Babble

Griffin's babbles seem to be slowly evolving into a few words - three words to be precise. They probably aren't recognizable words to anyone outside of our immediate family. But they are there! Words. Babblin' little words.

The first babble to take on a wordish form was (my personal favorite), Mommmm or Mama. (I admit to coaching him a little bit on that one.) The second was, of course, dadada. Although Chris contends Griffin also uses this babble to refer to the couch, table and any other inanimate object within his cruising reach.

The latest is Griffin's addition of the word "uh oh" to his vocabulary. The "uh oh" is usually drawn out with excited fervor right before he throws the object he is holding onto the floor. We pick it up and give it back to him. He smiles, replies "Uh Oh" and throws the object again. You'd think this would get old. But well, it hasn't. (In fact, we all (meaning his two older brothers) may be encouraging that one just a wee bit.)

Mommma, Dadda, Uh oh.. what could be next? Well, today Griffin discovered volume. He can yell. And he can yell loudly. This provided endless amusement to him as he sat in his high chair at dinner yelling and then laughing from the sheer joy of hearing his own voice. Now that has the potential to grow old. Quickly.

They May Never Leave Home

If my hubbie is home, I like to try to get out for a walk after the boys are tucked into bed for the night. (Try is the operative word in the last sentence. I try. Alot. Not much success, but I try.) Aidan has discovered my early evening sojourns around the neighborhood and he Is. Not. Pleased.

A few nights ago, he nagged me into admitting that I was planning a walk after he and Brennan were in bed. This led to such a breakdown among the boys that I lied and said I stay home. (I know. I lied. Bad Mommy. Bad.) But I went for a walk anyway and well, like a highschooler trying to sneak in after midnight curfew, I got caught. Only I get caught by a sneaky little five year old.

This led to the following conversation with Aidan as I tucked him into bed the next night:

Aidan: "Mom, I don't want you to go anywhere tonight."

Me: "I'm not going anywhere."

Aidan: "No?"

Me: "No. I am going to change into my pjs and get ready for bed. Okay?"

Aidan looks at me with suspicion and holds my gaze for a minute or two. "You went for a walk last night even though you said you weren't going too."

I sigh the despondent sigh of mothers with codependent children everywhere. "Aidan, Mommies need exercise. Okay? I go for walks so I can get exercise." I am about to launch in a discussion of the current state of my giant ass, but stop when I recall my telling him when he was three that I was walking my large butt off around the neighborhood and he repeated it to his preschool teacher.

Aidan grabs my hand and says, "You can get your exercise with me, Mom. Brennan and I will walk with you. Everyday. You don't need to go alone. We want to be with you."

"Aidan, you are with me. All the time you are with me."

"No I'm not. I have to sleep alone. Can you sleep in my bed tonight?"

I shake my head back and forth trying not to smile. "No, honey, Mommy has to sleep in her bed."

"Why?"

"Because I have to sleep with Daddy."

"But why? Why do the Daddies get to sleep with the Mommies and the kids have to sleep alone? When is it my turn?"

Oh Dear Lord, my head hurts. Before I can respond with an appropriate parent response, Aidan interjects, "I know. How about when Daddy goes out of town, I can have my turn? You can just scoop me up while I'm sleeping Mom. It won't wake me. And put me into your bed. Then I can be with you."

I decide to adopt the cop out of parents everywhere and respond: "We'll see Aidan. We'll see."

I have a strange feeling that my boys are going to be those children who move into my finished basement until they are ready for retirement.

Family Fun Day!

Our Saturday of a Family Fun Day was a rousing success. As Aidan said while we drove home, "Mom, this was the funnest day ever." Well of course, it was a family fun day, wasn't it?

We started at soccer where we cheered and shouted for Aidan during his match in humid 80+ degree weather. (Global warming? What global warming?)

Aidan enjoyed his first ever break away with the ball during the game. It was quite a moment for him.

After soccer, we loaded up the car and headed to farm country and an apple orchard. We borrowed a wagon, loaded up a couple of bushel baskets and picked apples to our heart's content.

Griffin loved his first whole apple:




Brennan declared his favorite part of the day was riding in the wagon for the apple baskets.


After we had more apples than we could ever eat or for more pies than I could possibly ever bake, we headed back out to find a pumpkin patch.

The perfect pumpkins were picked and a few baby pumpkins were brought home to decorate each of the boys' rooms. On the ride back home, we picked up a pizza for dinner. A perfect dinner to end our Family Fun Day.

We were all so tired from the adventures the boys were asleep by 6:30 pm. Family Fun Day does have its advantages. (Such as me on the couch with a big glass of wine and a DVRed Grey's Anatomy by 7 pm.)

Busy, Busy, Busy

We've been busy lately. A busy that extends beyond the normal chaos that is our life at home with three children under five. Chris has been traveling a lot for work. We've had friends from out of town visiting. And we've had social obligations that have forced us to go out and about two or three times a week at night. (Gasp! Two or three times a week! For those of you without children, you are already giggling. But trust me, after you have children, going out two or three times a week without kiddies is like living the rock star lifestyle.)

Last Saturday, I went to UB with a few of my girlfriends to hear Michael Moore speak. It was both inspiring and heart wrenching. I know there are many people who love to hate Michael Moore, but I see a man who has devoted his life to asking difficult questions because he believes we can do better. I believe we can do better.

On a lighter note, last night we went to the SEASON OPENER for the SABRES! Yes, they lost. Yes, they played pretty horribly after period two. But the excitement, the crowd, the hockey love made for a great night out.

We have declared today Family Day. Just us, the boys and some quality time at the soccer field and then a pumpkin patch.

Still My Baby

This morning, I woke Aidan up and grabbed a jabbering Griffin from his crib to head downstairs. All three of us cuddled up on the couch in the early morning light. Griffin drank his bottle snuggled up in my left arm and Aidan curled himself into my right side.

After several minutes of quiet, Aidan looked over at Griffin, smiled at me and said, "I wish you could hold me like you hold Griffin. Like a baby."

I kissed the top of his head, nuzzled him and replied, "Me too honey. Me too."

He may be five, a kindergartner and missing a tooth, but he will always be my baby.

The Delicate Balance

Here's the thing: on most days, I like my part-time work schedule. I like the balance between the adult business world and the wonders of the child world. But the balance between the two is a constant struggle and sometimes, it makes me feel as if I have so many balls bouncing in the air that I am bound to wind up with one or two conking me on the head when they fall down.

One of the most difficult parts of my schedule is to accept that on the days I work, I will hardly see my children. We arise from slumber and rush about in a chaotic frenzy to get all of us dressed and out of the house. And when we return, my children are tired, hungry and oh, so very grumpy. They want to eat, they want to veg and they simply want to sleep. We are home by 6 p.m. Griffin is in bed by 7 p.m. Aidan and Brennan follow by 7:30.

Each and every week, I end my Tuesday, my first day of my work week, with a sad and heavy heart because I miss my children. I try to stay grateful that I miss them. I try to remind myself that I only work three days a week. And I try to remember that I like to work. I try. Sometimes it works and others, well, I just feel like all the balls I have balanced up in the air have already crashed down around me.

Binky Love

In an effort to wean our two (almost three) year old Brennan from his beloved binky, the binky is now only allowed in Brennan's bed. The bink has seen better days. It is, honestly, pretty much a piece of repulsive plastic, so worn and icky the germs of each illness seem permanently affixed to its surface. (The bink is so gross that Chris and I once had an entire discussion on how much money it would take for either of us to put the binky in our mouth. After much debate, we decided $500 ought to do it. Two days later, a babysitter accidentally gave Griffin Brennan's binky. After washing Griffin's mouth out with soap, we decided we should add an extra $500 deposit to Griffin's college fund as payment for the binky slight.)

Today, Brennan woke up from nap in a haze of binky love. He begged for "just one more suck Momma," before heading downstairs. He sucked, looked at it lovingly and then left binky in his bed. As we walked out of his room, he looked longingly back at his bink and asked me, "Momma, who got me my binky?"

"Um, I think I did, Brenn."

"You did?" He asked with amazement.

"I think so, " I replied nodding my head.

Brennan grabbed onto my knees, hugged me as hard as he could and looked up at me with love shining in his eyes, "Thank you Momma, thank you. Thank you for my binky."

Yeah, this kid is so going to go off to college with a dilapidated, virus ridden, worn red binky hanging from his mouth.