Munsoned in Phoenix
On my way home from a grueling week at the ADIM conference in California, I was standing on the side of the terminal on my cell phone with Abbie. I like to people watch, and the place was packed.

I was discussing with my wife how America West had put me in another irritating and unacceptable situation, (because that is what America West specializes in - totally screwing up your itinerary that you have already paid good money for - overbooking seats - canceling flights for no reason - just generally pissing off and inconveniencing good outstanding citizens and customers.)

Back to the point. I was standing there on the outside looking in, talking to my lady when a figure comes speeding through the terminal with an armload of items, a baseball cap, and a scruffy blond beard. I recognized the person immediately, but did not have the time or the gall enough to stop the obviously late passenger. So instead, I just blurted out, "Hey, Woody!"

The man jerked his head over to me, and his smirky grin gave me the proof I needed, "Looking good, man!" I finished my incomplete thought, surprised that my observation was successful, and gave him a thumbs-up.

He finished his smile with a nod of recognition then turned into the nearest gate. By the time I fumbled my camera out of my bag, it was too late. Besides Abbie hearing it all on the cellphone line the entire time, this is the only evidence of my fleeting moment with Mr. Kingpin, the Natural Born Killer, the White Man that Couldn't Jump, Woody from Cheers, the man otherwise known as Woody Harrelson:

Emma's Philosophical Phrase of the Day:
"Daddy, there are shadows in your coffee."

What Time Do You Get Up?
"May I be et-tused?" Emma asks in her sweet, non-stopping, consistent, chatty, girlish voice.
"Yes you may. Please put your dishes into the sink, then you can go play." I thank the heavens that she is done and is going to go to another part of the house, hopefully.

When my three year old is on this natural high first thing in the morning, all I can think about is that little Looney Tunes mouse:
"somepeople sayItalk toomuch doyou thinkItalk toomuch Idon't thinkItalk toomuch... "

Wishing for silence while I finish feeding Ellie her breakfast, Emma jumps from her chair at the table and does a full ballerina pirouette. It is perfect. Her nightgown lifts in a precise circle surrounding her tiny waist.

I blame my impatience with such a sweet child on the fact that I am only halfway through my first cup of coffee this morning.

She drops her Disney Princesses heart-shaped plastic plate into the sink and pirouettes to the center of the kitchen again. The entire time looking down at the fascinating and spectacular defeat of gravity her nightgown performs.

"I am going to dance for Ellie." she decides.
"Are you going to sing too?" I ask for clarification.
"No, just dance." she replies.
"Thank you God." I think to myself as I reach for another bitter taste of freshly brewed java.

Yeah, I Got Skills

Six Degrees of Separation - a.k.a. The Royal Flush
Emma will not use a bathroom in our house if the door is closed and the fan is operating. She knows from past experiences that it will not smell good in there. Because of this, Emma informs all of us when she has to commit a bowel movement.

She is either not aware of others, or she really doesn't care what anyone will think when she announces,
"Mommy, uh, Daddy, uh... don't go into my baffroom cuz I have to go poop!"

Besides the imagery she creates, she also leaves the bathroom door wide open during her "interlude." We are working on that, but we both are really more happy that she is potty-trained.

So, recently, she has started this thing where she warns us, sits upon her throne with the door wide open to the outhouse, and then proceeds to tell us that she can't go anymore, or that "it's stuck" or something similar to that. It is most likely the heavy doses of cheese she consumes on a daily basis, but that is not the purpose of this story.

Today, Abbie and I are completely relaxed and lounging on the couch. Ellie is sleeping and Emma is playing, reading, eating, and hanging out with us. To remain lazy and to keep her busy, we often give her little things to do for us. I like to brush my teeth while I watch television, so I ask her if she would go get my toothbrush. That is when she declares the personal details of how she needs to take a dump before she exits the room and then she will get my toothbrush.

"After you wash your hands, please!" I shout to her as she leaves.

That is when Abbie turns to me and states how she really hopes Emma doesn't announce to the entire preschool during the week that she has to go potty and that they better stay out of the restroom because it will stink.

After a few minutes we hear:

"Mooooom!" Emma hollers from the commode.
"What Emma?" Abbie responds.
"I can't go poop anyyyyymooooore!"
"Do you have to go more?" my wife asks.
"Yes." Emma replies.
"Then either sit and wait a bit longer, or wipe and get off the toilet." instructs Abbie.

I can't help it but say sideways to Abbie on the couch, "Sh!t or get off the pot."

We giggle.

Emma washes her hands and comes out to us. Reminding her again the rules of finishing the job before you leave the john, Abbie begins,
"Emma, you can't be yelling at us from the toilet, you need to ..."

In Emma's common nonchalant way, she shifts the conversation to what is bouncing insider her melon at that exact moment and says to me, "Do you want me to get your toofbrush?" She asks while her mother continues.

"... you need to either poop or get off the pot." Abbie finishes her sentence not even noticing where to the real conversation has drifted.

Emma turns her clinched brows at Abbie and corrects her lecturing mother,
"I didn't say POOP! I said TOOFbrush!"