Bringing the midriff back

Charlie can't find a coat that he likes. He cried until I removed a vest coat this morning. "Don't like it! I don't like it! Fix it! Oooh! Oh! Oh!"

We settled on a hooded jacket – only after I zipped it. I found out it was too small for him, but not until we got to the Children's Museum. It was outside. It was sprinkling. I slipped the hood over his head and the hem of his jacket lifted above his waist. I haven't seen a belly shirt on a man since 1989 when my oldest brother used to remove the midriffs from tee shirts with pinking shears. He also taught me how to peg my jeans.

This morning's coat denial is really the visible peak of an entrenched clothing snobbery. He abhors long sleeves. He claims they are broken. Anything but snug tight pajamas are absolutely wrong. He'll remove them. Or he'll cry until one of us removes them. He is picky about his headwear. He will accept his Junior Zookeeper hat and his bicycle helmet. But that is only because he knows wearing them usually means passage to the zoo or a bike ride, respectively.

We missed the Gaddafi rant at the U.N. this morning. I wonder if little Muammar was a finicky dresser. "No mommy, this robe doesn't fit and I am the king of the world!" I think he's a mook, but having Charlie gives me perspective. He's still someone's son.

Charlie loves road signs. The Children's Museum has a wooden crate full of road signs. His favorite three signs are the railroad crossing, speed limit and watch out for bicycles. Charlie was on good behavior today. He pretended to cook in the mock kitchen and he sat the table. An older boy took one of the chairs he had pulled up. Charlie did not seemed bothered at all.

On the way home he spotted a sign.

"Speed lemon. Twenty," he stated from the car seat.

"That's speed limit. And it's sixty-five." I said.

We played a new game in bed this afternoon. It was called timber. The idea is to stand up in the bed and fall over stiffly like a felled tree. We had fun. His laughter is contagious.

We had dinner at Gunther Toody's tonight. It's a diner, lots of chrome and checkerboard pattern. Charlie ordered his own food, a hamburger and lemonade. He discovered the wonderful condiment ketchup, into which he dipped his French fries.

By the way, thanks for responding to the previous poll. The results are now in. Zero percent of respondents know anyone with Mesothelioma. I have posted a new poll.