Reasons Like Seasons

Not A Cat Boy Two has decided that everything on four legs is a cat. "Cat! Cat!" he squeals, pointing excitingly at an overweight golden retriever. "Dog? Do you see the dog? What a nice dog," I reply. (Note proper use of target noun used in context. ) "Cat!" Fine. Sure. I give up. Your ability to identify a large, four-legged, hairy creature walking around the apartment complex as similar to the small, four-legged, hairy creature that roams our apartment has been proven. Good job, dude. Mozel tov. Good luck getting into college.

I want Boy 1 to read so badly that it hurts. He knows a few words, but I feel that I have no justification to believe he is a mini-genius until he can read me a story. He already narrates adorable fictional prose, but due to some unknown reason, I don't feel like it counts until he writes the stories himself. As part of this epic journey, I have decided to allow him a Lego prize for every perfect square of words he learns. So far, he has 9, which is 3 squared in case it has been more than ten years since you took 6th grade math, and we ordered some Ninjago Legos from Amazon to celebrate. Now, every time I pick up my phone, he asks if he can look up the delivery status of his Legos. On the one hand I should be pleased that he knows so much vocabulary surrounding orders on Amazon. But, on the other hand, I should be worried that he knows so much of the vocabulary involved in ordering items from Amazon. It seems like with parenting, there is absolutely no winning, or at least, ...