Finny has entered the wonderful stage of making earnest, repetitive, targeted demands. And, since nothing gets by Mr. Henry, he is definitely aping his brother’s less-than-polite tactics for getting what he wants. It’s as if we haven’t been reminding them to “say please, say thank you” repeatedly day after day for years! Some examples (and believe me, this is a sharply abridged list!):
Finny:
“I want more milk! I want cinnamon toast! I don’t want toast, I want cereal! I want to watch Thomas! Mom-o, stop talking to me! Henry, stop playing with my trucks!”
Henry:
“I want truck videos! I want my trucks! I need my two Ollies! I waaaaaaant iiiiiiit! I dropped my _____, get it for me! Wipe my hands off! ” And, immediately upon waking the day after Halloween: “I want candy!”
It just goes on and on. I imagine being on the receiving end of the constant demands must feel somewhat like an old-school stockbroker shouting and signaling futilely in the middle of the insanely crowded trading floor. We stand firm and don’t move a muscle until there’s a “please” added to turn the demand into a request!
[I think Finn might actually need conflict right now, for whatever reason. He can be what seems like deliberately crazy, trying to get a rise out of us. For example, after trick or treating the other night, while I was putting Henry down Finn silently helped himself to a huge pile of M&M’s. I wasn’t pleased, but I didn’t make a big deal of it, and I said he could have more in the morning. “You said I can’t have any in the morning!!” he wailed, over and over, despite my protests. It was so irrational, so arbitrary-seeming, that I figured he must somehow need the battle. (Well, that and his poor tired bod was undergoing an epic sugar crash!) –J.]




What the heck is “Germany,” and who are “Germans”? If you asked the Micronaxx, you’d probably hear that it’s a land of pirates, peopled by hamburger-eating dudes with tiny eyes (wearing tiny glasses). After all, we’ve decked the boys out in 

Henry despises having his hair washed. He hollers, cries, squirms and complains about getting his hair washed Every. Single. Time. We’ve had him watch his brother stay calm and cool during the whole process, hoping he’d observe and learn. We’ve tried all sorts of techniques to make the hairwashing more pleasant. We’ve even tried to wash his hair as infrequently as possible, but he’s a little boy, and the grime builds up fast!
Poor Calvin’s dad. Growing up I never understood why, when asked over & over to read 



At risk of burning you out on these things, here are a few more Henry-isms gathered over the last several months:
Good times over the last few months with the big guy:
We keep collecting random Micronaxx bits via Twitter, and I realize I haven’t shared any in months. Here, then, is a sample set from the G-Man:
