"How are the kids? How is Adelaide? How is Atticus? How's Caedmon?"
Our children are young enough that they do change a lot from week to week; however, I still don't often know how to answer this. Our lives just aren't that exciting.
"Well," I often begin, "let's see. Adelaide has started reading. So that's, um, good. Atticus is... Atticus. He likes music. And being rough with Caedmon. And playing outside. Caedmon babbles a lot, and crawls, and... stuff."
Riveting, I know. At this point I'm usually tempted to exaggerate a teensy bit, but I'm afraid it would be a little obvious. "Adelaide is reading and has started speaking Mandarin and Atticus likes to destroy everything and volunteers ten hours a week at the nursing home and Caedmon is pulling up and is learning baby sign language." I don't do this because, well, it's just not true.
This is the ugly truth.
Adelaide likes to put on her play make-up most days.
She feels no need to look in the mirror while doing so.
When we're at home, Atticus is generally fun and happy.
When we go out in public, he appears sullen and stares at everyone distrustfully, especially if Derek isn't there.
Caedmon is at that stage where I can haul him out and make him do fun tricks, like crawling, babbling, and pulling up to various items of furniture.
He also likes to pull himself up to the trash can, grab ahold of the sack, and pull the whole can onto it's side, so that he can take the lid off, rifle through the contents, and scavenge for scraps of food. Thankfully the only thing I've found him with so far is an almost-empty jar of peanut butter.
The Crisler life is so glamorous.