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I haven’t blogged in ages. It’s been so long, in fact, that I had a hard time logging in today. Had to wrack my brain to come up with my password. Sad, sad state of affairs.

In an effort to catch up, though, I plan to run through the last few months and share what the Little Jobber’s been up to. We start with March . . .

Like last year, Conal and Owen started the garden work early, planting seeds for tomatoes, peas and cantaloupe. Conal was into it:

Cheese!”

Busy at work.

We had some warm weather in March and Conal made the most of it by playing outside, most notably pushing his imaginary sea lions (named A-Rod, for some odd reason) around the driveway:

Don’t really know what that was all about. But, he was all about the sea lions and now, in August, he’ll sometimes remember them and ask to take them for a walk. Why sea lions? Why not!

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As soon as one mark begins to fade, another takes its place. Bruises. Gashes. Scrapes. They all find their way to Conal’s head. And, usually, they land in prominent spots on his forehead.

He fell at Jer and Darci’s house on Saturday and it was one of his worst falls ever. I thought that last horrible bang-up was his worst ever. I was wrong. This one topped it. And, unfortunately, I imagine that there will be others that will top even this one.

The short story: He ran. He fell. He smacked his head on the corner of the wall. He cried out. I picked him up. He cried out so hard that he stopped breathing and turned blue. His head swelled. He started breathing. He calmed down. Aunt Darci took him to look for cats. He was all better.

But the gash remains.

Take a look — it’s a beauty . . .

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Some kids have imaginary friends. Conal has imaginary sea lions. He pushes them in the stroller. Feeds them treats that he picks from the cherry tree. He tells me that they are putting balls on their noses. He also names them. Today, one of his sea lions was named A-Rod.

Well, there you go. A-Rod the sea lion.Who knows what the sea lions will be called tomorrow? Melky? Derek? I guess we’ll wait and see what strikes his fancy.

Apparently, Conal didn’t go for his lunch today. So this is what he left behind*:

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Yes, I gave him the heel of the loaf. But there were only two pieces left, so he got what he got. And I got some modern art.

* He ended up eating the rest of the sandwich when he declared that he was hungry before going up for his nap. Stall tactic? Perhaps, but he probably was hungry — two bites doesn’t usually fill his belly!

It’s true that I “stay at home” with Conal, but it seems that we don’t do all that much staying at home. I like to make sure that he has plenty of time with other kids so I belong to two moms groups through which we’ve both made some great friends. We usually have a playdate or two each week through those groups, which is nice (this week we went to the Saratoga Children’s Museum). And, of course, we have the twice a week speech sessions with Miss Lynn, who Conal has tons of fun with.

But sometimes a kid needs more. So, to satisfy my little athlete, I’ve signed him up for gymnastics class. The session started on Monday and it was terrific! Conal loved it. He walked on the balance beams, jumped on the trampoline, hung and swung on the high bars and parallel bars, crawled through the tunnel, jumped on the stars and somersaulted his way across the mats.

To balance out the athletics, I also signed him up for a science class on Wednesdays at CMOST. The first class was all about bubbles and next week he’ll explore colors.

What fun for a two-year-old!

And what tiring days for a mom. TGIF!

Conal does a great job counting to 13 except for one thing: He skips four. Almost every time.

I’ve asked him, “What happened to four? You forgot four.”

He responds, “Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. THIRTEEN! YAY!” And then he claps and smiles. But no four. Four is out of the picture. What does the little jobber have against four?

Who knows? He just doesn’t go for it. But, he loves thirteen.

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One hour.

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Two days.

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Two weeks.

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Two months.

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One year.

And today, the Little Jobber turns two. Two years.

Smiling for the camera is no longer a given:

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But “funny” faces are almost guaranteed:

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He’s fun. And funny.

The best little two-year-old we could ask for.



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