I'm TWO! How 'bout you?

Whoo hoo! I'm TWO! And NOW, I think I am really something special.

To celebrate my second birthday in style, mom and dad decided to have a birthday brunch at a local restaurant/pub. We invited 25 people (including 10 kids!) and hoped that the mayhem wouldn't blacklist us forever. Here I am psyched to party (and already hopped up on chips...er, french fries, for you American Saxontologists). My button designates me as the official "Birthday Bloke."

We ended up occupying two large tables (as well as about a 1/3 of the restaurant in buggy parking).

Here I am with some of my sand pit buddies and Conorito's mom.

'Naynay' (as he often refers to himself in the 3rd person) and I share a deep and meaningful love for chocolate cupcakes.

Too busy to pose with dad. Must rearrange silverware.

I had such a great time at the party and my friends were so well-behaved that the restaurant actually asked us BACK!!!! I am hanging with a VERY classy crowd here in London, I must say. How often does a posse of two year olds get invited back anywhere?

Of course, after we left the restaurant, I was on a high....then it all quickly faded to black.

Stay posted friends, next on the two year old agenda...UNDERPANTS and POTTIES! Curious? I sure am.

If the physique fits....

As you faithful followers of Saxontology are aware, I am not a 'slim Jim' of a toddler and although I have lost some baby chunkiness since I started walking, I wouldn't consider myself to be slight. I am still a hearty eater and an enthusiastic milk drinker and, consequently, I do maintain both a prominent gut and moobs to be proud of. When considering my costume options therefore, it seemed natural to play up my best beefcake assets. The obvious choice, therefore, was pumpkin.

The truth is that I loved my costume soooo much that as soon as my mom put it on, I refused to take it off and INSISTED on wearing it to nursery school. I didn't care that I was the only one wearing a costume. I thought it made me special. (According to my teachers, the only time they got it off of me was to change my diaper...ONCE and only ONCE.) Later in the afternoon, all of the other kids put their costumes on and we had a very British "Halloween Tea Party" in the garden. I ate lots of sugar, felt zippy and ran around like a madman. Needless to say, I was all smiles when my mom came!

This is a photo taken a few days later by my Great Aunt K who came to visit me in London (with Great Uncle W). Of course, I had to show them all the sights (that a 2 year old would consider worthy) and here I am with mom and dad in the park with the BEST playground...Holland Park.

(Special thanks to Great Aunt K for the photos...you made overcast London look bright!)

Hi Everybody!

Oh NO! (That is my new favorite phrase.) Has it really been so long? Have I really been so negligent in my updates? Well, all I can say is that I 100% unreservedly blame my parents. They are sooooo NEEDY! If it isn't "Saxon, come here and eat" then they are telling me "Saxon, put your coat on, we are going outside to the playground or to see your friends or whatever." Sheesh! Can't a little guy get a minute to himself to cutdown on the blog backlog? In any case, I have much to report (now that I am back home in London) and I promise lots of news soon....well, just as soon as the 'you know whos' take a chill pill.

Banana Healing.

Here at the Church of Saxontology, we believe that a wide girth is not a curse. I like to say that if people say you are bloated, correct them by stating you are simply front-loaded. In fact, as the all-powerful leader of the Church of Saxontology, I am blessed with a very specific gift of healing. I can cast out the demons of food aversion.

A few weekends ago, my cousins came to visit me at Gammy's house and on Sunday, just as Aduma and I sat down to services (i.e. breakfast), it was revealed to me that he has a banana food aversion. I laid hands upon him, shoved a morsel of banana into his mouth and cried out "Demons Be Gone!"

And he was cured (much to his mom's amazement).

Praise Chiquita!

The Saxonator has left the country...

It is true, dear Saxontologists, I have hopped a flying machine and jumped across the sea to visit the land of my birth...the U.S.A. I am basing my American operations out of Gammy and Poppy's house here in upstate NY from which I can fulfill a multitude of social obligations. I plan to be here for a month with my mom (dad has to go back to London to work) and I will, of course, keep you updated on the exciting events that happen to me and keep you hungering to hear more about the continuing adventures of the Saxonator!

What To Do With a Mullet?

Imagine this, dear Saxontologists, it is Saturday morning and the Olympics are on television. You and your dad are just hanging out watching some female powerlifting (ooh lala those biceps!) when suddenly your mom appears...holding a pair of TRAUMA SCISSORS! That is right, she has a pair of those huge, nasty, serrated steel shears meant to cut through cloth, plastic and metal equally well. She holds them above my head and announces, "I can hardly see your eyes because your bangs are too long." Despite my protests, she persists in snipping my lovely long locks and five minutes later, I officially have a mullet. (In the interest of preserving any future self-respect, I have declined to provide photographic evidence of my humiliation.)

Luckily, Dad looked up from the Olympics on TV long enough to say, "He looks terrible." He then promptly whisked me away to the barber shop around the corner. And now, I look like...

In the end, I am quite happy with my new hairdo. My mom felt so guilty for defacing my good looks that this morning she let me play with her hair products. It was so fun smearing glue into my hair that when I was finished, I looked like a real British yob (London backslang for uncouth young thug)...just let them try to mess with me on the playground now!

What do you prefer? Hippie surfer dude or British yob?

Part Fish. Part Boy Wonder. 100% Saxonator

As the Summer Olympics in China begin, I wonder if my dad is getting a little Olympics nostalgia. On the other hand, maybe my enthusiasm for water in Devon tipped him off. Either way, I win because last weekend, Dad took me to the Portchester Baths near our house. For those of you who might wonder why I wouldn't just take a 'bath' at home (I am not naming names but I will say that it isn't a coincidence that collectively you find yourselves located on the other side of the Atlantic.), 'bath' in this instance is a Victorian Britishism meaning indoor swimming pool.

As you can tell, I dig this kind of 'bath.' (Floating noodles are soooo much better than conventional bath toys.) Dad dunked me under the water and after the first few times with my mouth open, I realized it is much better mouth closed. The best part was micromanaging dad by pointing and directing him about where to go in the pool via primeval grunts.

(Did I mention that I am still a man of very few words? Why speak when you can grunt?)

Then again, why walk when you can float?