Wesley the Inquisitor

Wesley has hit the famous "why" stage of development, and as with everything that Wesley does, it is intense, it is incessant, it is demanding, and it is thorough. He is most fascinated with each and every road sign that we pass in the car. Not one goes unquestioned. On our recent trip to Montrose, Colorado to visit my sister, I estimate that about half of the 5 hour drive consisted of Wesley asking "What does that sign mean, Mommy?" If I don't respond immediately, he asks louder and louder, until he finally emits his last attention-getting tactic: a high-pitched squeal that sounds remarkably like a loud finger whistle people use to get attention at football games. On many occasions, I have had to resort to the infamous parental line: "Just because," and finally, "I just don't know, Wesley. Sometimes Mommies just don't know."

His new favorite bedtime story book is "How Things Work", a "simplified" diagram book that tells how many different complicated gizmos in the world function. As I understand none of it, nor care (how does a space rocket work? Who cares? It just does!), Jeff has taken over the reading of this book. Now, I am surprised to find Wesley exclaiming as I use the manual can opener, "Mommy, that's the gear, right there, that makes it go around, and that's the wedge," or give me a run-down on just exactly what makes the clock tick.

Wesley's proclivity for answering the hows and whys of life has been evident from the beginning; as soon as he could hold and twist, our household pens became victims to his curiosity. I still find pen body parts strewn about: an occasional spring here, a clicker there. His latest fascination is flashlights, and as a result, before camping, we have to do a search and rescue mission to reassemble the poor decapitated and gutted torches.

So, we figure that preparation is the key. As Wesley grows, we might have to do preemptive strikes, putting lawn mowers, television sets, and kitchen mixers under lock and key, in order to salvage lives before they are taken. In the meantime, each day I brace myself for the fresh assault of "whys" and try to be grateful that Wesley has such a curious mind.

The Chronicles of Evan's Giant Head

Evan has a large noggin. This is medically documented: Since birth, his head has consistently been in the 97th percentile of large heads. That means that only 3% of children out there have a cranium larger than his. Other than medical proof, the astounding amount of times that he has cracked his gargantuan melon on things around him is evidence of something a bit too large to handle.

Items and people that have had issues with Evan's head: Car doors, house doors, sidewalks, bunkbeds, futons, Mom's elbows, stairway railings, door handles, slides, swings, treadmills, desks, chairs, stools, refrigerators, walls, Dad's knees, neckholes of shirts (getting him dressed is a tug-of-war every day), doctors (with a not-so-tactful "Well, he's sure got a large head!" and "His head's almost off the charts!"), hats (as a newborn, the cute little newborn beanies were a joke, schlurrping right off that noggin' every time), bathtubs, buckets and bowls (they get stuck sometimes), Wesley ("Mom! Evan bonked me with his head again!"), random people attempting to dispense comfort ("That just means he's going to be super smart!"), and countertops, just to name a few.

It's a hard-knock life for Evan's head, but at least there's room for lots of kisses.