02 June 2009

Apparently, it's genetic

When I was a very small child, my parents lived in a little house in Idaho, not too far from the Snake River. The little house had a long gravel driveway, and one of the things I loved to do was play with the little pebbles. It wasn't uncommon for my mother to find me with my cheeks pooched out like a chipmunk's, full of tiny stones. When that happened, she would cup her hand under my chin, and I would spit out the rocks into her hand.

Apparently this love of rocks can be passed down, because all my children love to play with rocks. They bring them home and scatter them about the house, and I never know where I'll find them. I sneak them into the trash because, really, a person only needs so many rocks in the house. They keep coming in, so for my own sanity I try to keep them going out as well. Today, Monkey#3 found a stash of very small rocks.


He seemed to think they were great chew toys. On another note, how can you tell a blogging mother from the other sort? The blogger walks around with a handful of drool and pebbles looking for the camera, rather than the trash can.

Monkey#3 has also begun speaking in complete sentences. His favourites are "I want to nurse." and "I want to get down." Today (before he found the rocks) he apparently discovered a pile of dirt from some toys that had come in from the garden. He wandered into the kitchen with one hand and his face covered with mud. I said "Have you been eating MUD?" He nodded very carefully, the way toddlers do, gave me a big grin, and said "Id ah oh ay?" (Is that ok?).

I took this picture just after he wiped most of the mud off onto my sheets. It was a very geological day.

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