It was the second week of karate, and Boots was starting  his new sport the same way he’d started soccer.
He’d flop. He’d flit. He’d spin merrily and smile broadly. Then he’d look appropriately chagrined when …

She had the same reaction I did when she went to the pre-season meeting for soccer parents and found out that her 4-year-old’s team didn’t have a coach: This will never work.
The director assured everyone …

For years, Boots dreamed of joining Big Guy on that glorious place called the soccer field.
He ran onto the grass in the middle of practice. He threw  tantrums so horrific he was banned from going …

It was a sad, sad day when Boots’ folder came home from school last week brimming with Christmas-era artwork. Stockings, trees, gingerbread and more, all removed from the classroom walls in order to make room …

Boots bounced down the stairs, climbed on the bar stool and was waiting at the counter for breakfast before I’d even turned on the kitchen light this morning.
“Mommy, I can’t wait to go to school …

“Mommy! Superman’s face is all black. What did he do to it?” Big Guy demanded indignantly, thrusting the toy under my nose.
Sure enough, there now was a chunk of dark plastic where a face and …

You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen …
But do you know how scary it is up here? Even when the audience is all mommies and daddies …

I love independence – one of the happiest days of my life was when Big Guy woke up early, climbed on a stool, hoisted the Cheerios from atop the fridge and made himself and his …

Boots’ eyes got wide this morning after he accidentally bumped a classmate as they both hung their coats and the boy muttered something.
“Mommy!” Boots gasped. “He called me a name!”
I didn’t ask what the name …

Once in a while a child is born with such preternatural patience that it puts the adults around him to shame.
In the case of Boots, the trait has to be the result of genetic mutation. …

There are picky eaters, there are picky eaters who border on neurotic and there are wannabes.
Big Guy’s the neurotic type. Part of it has to do with his food allergies, but mostly it’s …

He went to bed one night a callow youth of 3, egcitick about his birthday the next day but not quite understanding that if he’d just go to sleep it would be here before he …

There was trouble on the Island of Sodor this morning as I cleared the breakfast mess.
“Mommy, Thomas is crying,” Boots anguished. “It’s his birthday, and Percy is taking all the cake. And all the presents.”
“Can’t …

Had I not been the target, Boots’ backyard baseball performance yesterday would have been hilarious.
Big Guy and I were playing catch while Boots sulked inside with his Thomas DVD. After about 15 minutes, the game …

It occurred to me this week that I had a set of conflicting goals: Get Big Guy to school on time and get Boots out of the stroller.
I’d served Boots his eviction notice about a …

The problem with a 3-year-old’s tantrums is that they’ve lost the mystery, the romance.
When a 2-year-old throws a fit, you can patiently run through the list of usual suspects. “Are you hungry? Do you need …

Blessed are the coaches who schedule practice in a park where there’s something to keep younger siblings amused, for you save parents much stress and preserve the hearing of everyone within a 10 mile radius.
I …

The disadvantage of being the younger child is that you’re born to an experienced parent. One well-acquainted with the sneaky ways of a rascally preschooler.
Which means that, with the exception of Boots’ toilet fixation, there …

Since we’re into adding warning labels to children’s media this days, “The Foot Book” needs to be next on the list.
Innocent introduction to literature suitable even for young babes? Yeah, I fell for that, too, …

At what the point does “it’s just a phase” morph into “it’s a personality trait that’s not going to change”?
When, six months down the road and after untold lectures, scoldings and timeouts, a 3-year-old still …

Is there such a thing as bathing addiction? If so, does anyone know of a treatment program, preferably one at a center with showers only?
I think Boots is going to need help some day. Possibly …

Seems that the older I get, the more I lose my ability to think like a child.
I still get the imaginative part no problem, which means I’m pretty quick on the uptake when Boots is …

I finally found a solution to my oversleeping problem: The Ultimate Alarm clock.
The Ultimate Alarm is not cheap: Delivery alone weighs in at thousands of dollars, and ongoing maintenance is pricey, too.
Nor is it compact, …

Poor Boots. At age 3, he’s not retail savvy enough to realize everything has to be brand-spanking new and expensive.
He actually prefers hand-me-downs, taking pride in wearing something his brother once wore. Or, in many …

Honestly, it was only three caps of Mr. Bubble. And we have hard water, too.
Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

It took Big Guy all of 3.6 seconds to get the truth out of Boots the night after the guys had gone on separate Christmas shopping trips for each other.
There was no need for beating, …

Tiny hands formed a death grip on the door frame as Boots wailed piteously.
“Noooooooo! Don’t wanna go!” he wept, his face contorted with anguish.
Was he headed to the doctor for shots? No.
Going to a strange …

Ever since Big Guy was old enough to spit his first “gimme it,” I’ve had a firm rule: I don’t negotiate with terrorists.
Throw a fit, you’re not going to get it. At least not until …

James plus Thomas equals Percy.
Edward plus Henry equals James.
Toby plus Thomas equals Duck.
And that’s as far as we’ve made it in number recognition, because we don’t have any Thomas and Friends engines beyond eight. OK, …

It’s one of those things you think is going to have the life expectancy of a house fly when it starts. But then it somehow manages to stick.
Little Guy has been on a “Dora the …

I’m not sure where it came from, but there’s a good chance Little Guy free-lanced it.
I’m not sure how to spell it, though lacking an official entry in Webster’s, I have to go with two …

A friend called it in the summer. Soon, he said, Little Guy would start crying to get his way.
His prediction was based on anecdotal evidence gathered from two youngest-sibling ex-spouses. There is some birth-order research …

We’ve been on vacation for the past week, which means we’ve slipped into some nasty habits.

Bedtime has been more of a wish than a deadline. Morning clean-up has floated well into the afternoon. And regularly scheduled meals have lapsed into the category of “”vague memories.”"

But Little Guy set us straight this morning.

He marched to the “”engirator”" with his “”I’m hungry”" stance.

“”What do you want, babes?”" I asked, expecting to hear juice or ice cream.

“”I want carrots!”" he said.

If it’d been Big Guy, I would have fainted. Coming from Little Guy, though, it’s nothing unusual.

Watch him beg for broccoli! Listen to him ask for asparagus! Hear his appeals for apples!

Picky eater? More like picking his plate clean and begging for more. Good thing someone in this house has some nutritional sense

For the most part, Little Guy is a fairly unflappable kid. He’s so chilled, in fact, that he slept through his circumcision.

Once in a while, though, he proves he is a normal toddler with all the usual quirks and fears.

Such when he asked if he could go to the park tomorrow morning and I let it slip that he has a doctor’s appointment.

“”No!”" he pouted, big-lipped. “”Don’t need a ketchup. I talk real good.”"

When he fell asleep an hour later, he still was protesting the ketchup. At least tonight there were no cries with that.

I’m not sure where that notion originated. Maybe he’s remembering Big Guy’s recent checkup, which was highly conversational, between the vision and hearing tests and the pediatrician’s general chit-chat. It also was heavy on tantrums — the doctor

“I spent three summers in North Carolina, so I know the damage a hurricane do.

Nothing — not watching street lights sway as winds howled through the parking lot at work, not simmering for three days without electric — could have prepared me, though, for the storm that’s roiled our house recently.

Witness the past few days:

• A kitchen flood caused by an inability to know when to say when at the water dispenser. Hint: Stop when it starts slopping over your hand.
• Various bathroom disasters triggered by an inability to calculate accurately the proper ratio of toilet paper needed to deal with “”much poopy.”" Hint: Half a roll is too much.
• A refrigerator bin collapse resulting in a quart of marinara splaying across the white floor. Hint: Just because the yogurt drink has a monkey

I’ve torted turtles and iced engines. That’s how you know the guys are serious about a relationship with a fictional character — they want it immortalized in frosting.
So when I asked Little Guy what cake …

From the time he was born, there’s been one constant in Little Guy’s life: Big Guy.

Big Guy, who tried to dump him out of the stroller before he had lived his first month. Big Guy, who developed a sudden affection for formula and pacifiers and snatched his brother’s every chance he got. And Big Guy, who would gently caress Little Guy’s head with a consoling “”it’s all right”" as I warmed bottles.

Little Guy has lived few seconds of his life outside Big Guy’s shadow, and it’s quite a prodigious shadow to be in.

Big Guy, you see, is an “”it”" kid. The type of person who captures a room’s attention the second he enters. “”Madre de Dios! Face of an angel!”" a woman exclaimed in Wal-Mart when he was about 7 months old

Seems I have something in common with Miami Herald columnist Leonard Pitts Jr.

We’re both journalists — never mind that he has a Pulitzer and I don’t. Who needs it? It’s just more junk to gunk up the house.

We’ve both owned Nerf guns — except I aim mine at co-workers and he used his to chase monsters from underneath his daughter’s bed.

We’re both parents — except my oldest is on the cusp of kindergarten, while his is ready to leave for college.

Which brings me to the real connection between us — letting go.

He of a young woman. And me of my last baby.

I have it easier than he does right now, because I have a few more good years with the guys, when they still think Mom has at least some of the answers