a joke, a scrub and a meme

Eldest: hey, listen to this!
Toddles, mouth full, nods.
Eldest: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 9!
the Toddles laughs, spraying the table with (soy) milk.

In the kitchen, I scratch my head. Is this more sib-speak? Or is it bean-counting genes speak?
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The Toddles is loving having his brother around this summer, and the Eldest is delighted, too, and I'm cautiously pleased if somewhat puzzled by the turns that their collective brains take. Still, I'm trying hard to be patient about the penis-fascination. Especially when it encourages the on-going potty training.

Having laughed until I ached over this, I've finally decided that letting the Eldest potty train (or at least potty educate) the Toddles is good for us. The boys have such fun comparing notes and technique (can you pee into the toilet from the stepping stool? I can reach from the edge of the bathtub!), while I happily eavesdrop. Besides, I never actually potty-trained the Eldest - it was all his idea, and he managed the job in about 48 hours. So.

Eventually, though, I realized that the Eldest had forgotten to teach the Toddles the fine art of handwashing after peeing. Being an absurd neatfreak, I started to shudder. I grabbed my (homemade vinegar, natch - brief pause for smug eco-savviness) cleanser and a rag, and started scrubbing. Then I lectured the Eldest and handed him a rag. Then, I collared the Toddles.

The Toddles looked at his soapy, bubbling hands and fell in love. Five minutes later, he informed me that I need to pee again. Hands deep in dinner prep, I looked at him with some disappointment. Don't you want to do this with your brother? I suggested. Nope. I want to pee. And WASH, he said emphatically. I sighed, and hobbled up the stairs after him.

Somehow, the Eldest is now the peeing potty person, and I am the soapy potty person. Curses, I thought ruefully, foiled again.
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.....and a meme.

Tag Rules:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on the blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post.
5. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

So, then.

• I wanted to be a doctor, didn't want to be a doctor, ended up talking to too many doctors, wrote a letter of rec for a doctor who tried to take care of the Eldest (and then fled)
• I had a cat - a rescue - who died in my arms
• I once gave a B to a vice-president's daughter, but her dad didn't call and yell at me
• In high school, I wore a uniform. And tie-dyed tights.
• I own a violin with no strings
• I use a mean foil.

And I'm tagging my hemo-home girl (who is thinking much too thoughtfully about insurance and legislation for this kind of frivolity, but hey), the currently quiet Zina (about whom I insist on worrying), the possibly vanished JG, purplemommy (good luck with the food challenge!), Abacaxi Mamao (who is opting out on the rats and races to indulge instead a fascinating brain), and magid.

And Julia, if you are reading this, I want to know: where is my borscht??? What else could you possibly be doing besides that? Bah.