Got the word from our realtor: the couple that looked at our house on Saturday may be writing an offer tomorrow. The catch: they tentatively wanted to know if we could sell by January fifteenth. We won't be back in town until January fourth. We could sell that early, maybe, but it would be crazy-making. I hope they'll be willing to flex, but if they're not, look for things to go bonkers here in the next month or two.

I haven't had any cute Sam stories in a while. Here they come!

Sam has always had a fascination with his, um, male anatomy. When he was an infant, he would grab and yank as hard as he could, to the point where friends and family would ask about that as a matter of habit whenever they asked about him. "Is he still doing that?" they'd say with a chuckle. It wasn't so much that he would always "find himself"; it was the vigorousness with which he would.

Now that he's older, he doesn't pull quite so hard, but he is full of curiosity about the area. Never one to shirk from providing a child with information, I gave him the proper names to use for all of his anatomy; in his own little dialect, he adapted the terms to become "pee-sin" and "teckles."

If it had ended there, I'd have been more than happy. No; my child doesn't just ruminate on his own "teckles." He needs to know about everybody's "teckles."

He's gone through his litany of known family members, asking about each by name. "Grandma Richmond - teckles? Uncle Bryan - teckles?" When I say that, no, a certain female relative is not possessed of testicles, he nods thoughtfully, storing away the information for later use. He's particularly interested in my brother's "teckles"; when he gets him on the phone, more often than not, his first question concerns anatomy.

Most recently, he's taken to lecturing me about the subject during diaper changes. With a serious look on his face, he recites the facts at hand. "Uncle Cory - teckles. Grandma Richmond - no teckles! Daddy - big teckles!" It goes on and on, while I do everything in my power to keep a straight face and not giggle at him. After all, "teckles" are no laughing matter.

(I can hardly wait for his curiosity to extend to cover just what his female relatives might have instead of testicles. I used those terms with him in the beginning, but he quickly brushed them aside as irrelevant.)

I mentioned a few entries ago that Sam had an enjoyable experience playing with a remote control car at a mall kiosk. It was a complicated model, designed to flip, twist, mutate, and spin, never crashing or getting stuck at all. Sam pretty much just hit random buttons on the controller, and the car did its own thing. He was fascinated, but it wasn't very productive.

A few days ago, we went to a nearby town and visited the huge independent toy store. Sam loves this place; they have four train tables, toy kitchens and workbenches, cars, trucks, infant and toddler toys, dollhouses - anything you can think of, out on display for the kids to play with and enjoy. The owner is a little wacky, dressed in a lab coat and frequently found riding around on kiddie toys, but it all adds to the charm.

I was pleased to find a table of half-off toys, including the parking garage that has enamored Sam for years. I made a quick call to Eric, then snapped it up. While they were wrapping it (for free!), I noticed a small yellow remote control car sitting on the floor. I asked if they had the controller for it, and they readily handed it to me.

It had three control parts: a steering wheel, a forward/reverse lever, and a "Go" button. Sam immediately whacked the "Go" button and rammed it into a stack of boxes, where it got stuck. I laughed. "Maybe next year, when you're a bit older."

"Wait, give him a minute," urged the sales-teenager. Since they were still wrapping my box, I obliged him. We put the car into low gear to give Sam additional reaction time. Within the five minutes or so that it took to finish my wrapping job, Sam was able to put the car in reverse, back it up, shift to forward, steer it purposefully into customers' feet, back it up, try again, and so on. I was amazed.

I was not, however, made of money. The car was on sale, but Sam's already topped out his Christmas budget. Mom and Dad, however, were having trouble finding the spring horse that they wanted to get Sam. I was already a little reluctant about the horse, and the real estate it would eat, myself, so when I told them about Sam's car fun, I was thrilled to hear them decide to switch gears (no pun intended) and go with the car.

I just hope this thing doesn't eat batteries the way my brother's cars used to when he was a child.

Finally, lately, whenever a situation becomes remotely uncomfortable for the boy, he turns into a cat. If I'm trying to tell him not to crawl behind the Christmas tree, for example, he begins to "meow" loudly and drops to all fours. If too many people are looking at him in public, even in a friendly way, he starts the routine. If he's in time-out, it's usually in feline form.

It started out cute, but now it's really starting to wear on me. Sometimes I really need him to listen, but he just meows louder and louder, as if to say, "I can't understand you, la-la-la." I've tried ignoring it, scolding, joining the imaginary play - nothing "works" for long. He doesn't want me to be a cat, too, that's for certain; he breaks character just long enough to yell, "Stop it, Mama!" or else he simply ignores my own meowing.

The most heartbreaking moments are when he tries to "meow" his way through what he perceives to be a fight between Eric and me. Even if we're not remotely arguing, but simply discussing something important, he jumps in between us and begins the cat act with gusto. He wants things to be kept "light" in this house.

I hope this stage ends soon, though I'm not holding my breath. Even if he gives up being a cat, I'm sure something else will arise that will make me long for the days of Morris.

Eric just got home from entertaining visiting coworkers from corporate. I'm jealous; I haven't gotten to hang out with my friends in over a week, thanks to illnesses.