Baby Hercules

I started this entry yesterday, and was a page into it when I realized that it was all about weenies and boobies (those are technical terms). I got nervous that my blog might get "flagged," although I don't really know what "flagging" means; it very well could be a good thing. "Hey, dude, what'd you do last weekend?" "Man, I got flagged." "Sweet. That's flagging awesome."

So, for those of you who are dying to know what a weenie and booby blog would be about, I'll give you the Cliff Notes version: Dylan saw a ding-dong (mine) and thought it was a light switch chain. Dylan saw boobs (not mine) and her dad felt awkward. The end. No flagging necessary.

Now, on to the clean and mundane.

Lately, Dylan has been exhibiting super-strength. It started with breaking sticks in the yard. She'd pick up a fallen stick from our oaks (her favorite toy, by the way. It makes gift giving really easy.), then break it in half. If the stick was too big, her little arms would tremble and her eyes would bug out a little. I'd hold my breath in anticipation until the stick would snap.

Since the number of our backyard sticks has doubled (remember, she broke them all in half. It's math.), and are too small to break, she's moved on to toy-lifting. Dylan chooses the largest and most cumbersome, like the entire Old McDonald's Farm set, picks it up and carries it from room to room. She looks like an athlete on The World's Strongest Man competition who is trying to toss his ninth VW Bug over a wall. She staggers under the weight and Regina and I cheer her on like there is some imaginary finish line in our kitchen. It's fun to watch and has made the "toy corner" of our home obsolete. Now, we have toys in every room, like a FAO Schwarz.

I've got to say, with all this stick training and heavy lifting, Dylan is looking pretty ripped. And if anyone tries to flag this, I'll send over our little body-builder to settle the score.