Processed and packaged foods are a convenient choice for today’s busy families, but they’re loaded with strange additives to control color, flavor, smell, nutrition, texture, and shelf life. (Thus, the impossible to pronounce ingredients lists!) Some are okay, and some should be avoided, especially with kids since they are uniquely vulnerable.

Limit your child’s intake of food additives by following these easy steps:

Identify what your child eats

Keep a food diary for a week, noting everything that is eaten – including at school. At the end of the week, you should have a good idea of your child’s exposure to food additives. Food additives are largely present in processed and packaged foods, candy, soda and other “junk” food, so if you limit those foods, you’ll cut down considerably.

Eat whole foods

Eating a balanced diet of fresh produce and whole grains will go a long way towards keeping additives out of your child’s system. Whole foods are much healthier than processed and packaged. But, if you do buy processed foods, look for the organic options which have little or no added synthetic colors or preservatives.

Read Labels

According to pediatrician, Dr. Alan Greene, be especially attentive to the top five risky additives:

1. Artifical Colors – anything that begins with FD&C (e.g. FD&C Blue No. 1)
2. Chemical Preservatives – Butylated Hydroxyanisole (BHA), Sodium Nitrate, Sodium Benzoate
3. Artificial Sweeteners – Aspartame, Acesulfame-K, Saccharin
4. Added Sugar – High Fructose Corn Syrup (HFCS), Corn Syrup, Dextrose, etc
5. Added Salt – Look at the sodium content and choose foods with the lowest amounts.

Additionally, according to the Center for Science in the Public Interest, some of following additives have been associated with negative health impacts:

Propyl Gallate
Sulfites (Sulfur Dioxide, Sodium Sulfite, Sodium And Potassium Bisulfite, Sodium and Potassium Metabisulfite)
Potassium Bromate
Monosodium Glutamate (MSG)
Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil
Partially Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil
Potassium Bromate
Olestra (Olean)
Heptylparaben
Sodium Nitrite

If you have a question about any food ingredient, dietary supplement or cosmetic contact the FDA’s Center for Food Safety and Nutrition, 888-SAFEFOOD.

Report Adverse Reactions

Alert your health care provider to any adverse reactions to find out if your child has special sensitivities or allergies. These reports are also often compiled for health agencies to monitor the safety of ingredients. If too many adverse impacts are reported, regulatory action may be necessary.

Learn more:
Eat Healthy
Just Say No to Blue, Green, Red and Yellow
6 Steps to Reduce Exposure to Synthetic Hormones in Food

You’ve worked too hard this year to let all the great things your kids learned slip during the hazy, lazy days of summer.

So when Kacy, a friend of mine, suggested creating a binder for each child with activities and worksheets, I thought it was a great idea. I hit a teacher/education supply store in my area so I could browse through their offerings. I picked up a couple workbooks and some lined newsprint. The other place I found workbooks? Costco! And their prices were cheaper!

Here’s how it works:

I bought a binder for each of my children to customize (you might even have extra binders around the house or office.)

Think about the subjects they needed a little help with during the year, or areas you think they’d enjoy learning about during the summer. Bigger kids can have more diverse binders, tabbed with a range of subjects or activities.

Since my kids are little, they’ll be practicing a lot of writing. I got two packages of lined newsprint: the little one got the Kindergarten big spaced type so he can write his letters; the big one gets smaller lined newsprint so he can practice making smaller, more evenly spaced words.

My 1st to 2nd grader has two workbooks along with his handwriting practice: an addition and subtraction math game book, and a general knowledge book.  If he needs it, we’ll make more tabs for him with different subjects for concentration. For now, I think the above is enough to keep him happily working for an hour or so during the day.

My preschooler did a great job learning how to write his own name this year and loves to ask how to spell words letter-by-letter. I don’t expect him to really stay inside the lines, but he likes how grown up it seems to have lined paper. His work book is a hodge podge of activities, games, and light learning.

I’m not interested in creating a genius, I just want him to feel a sense of accomplishment when he “works” on his pages. Keep it FUN for little ones. I’m not going to force him to do work every day unless he wants to. (Of course he wants to because his brother is doing his work.)

My soon to be 2nd grader doesn’t have a choice, haha. He has math, reading, and writing to work on daily. We’re also keeping his summer reading pass book from our local library in one of the pockets. I don’t want to hear about how bored he is, ever.

Our plan is that after breakfast they’ll have their chores to do, then their school work, before they’re allowed to go outside to play or watch a show.

What are your tips for keeping the brain drain at bay and keeping your kids busy not bored?

Emma tugged at her piggy tails. “They’re too babyish,” she muttered.

I knew she was feeling too babyish, as well.

This was the second time Emma, age 6, was taking a martial arts class. She had been going to an introductory class for months with 4- and 5-year-olds. But now she was ready to move up.

It’s a big commitment. Class meets three times a week, meaning three late dinners each week, three hours of convincing her little brother to be quiet, and monthly tuition fees that could be going toward dinners out.

But it’s worth it.

The first session was great. Emma’s the smallest one there, but her former instructor cheered her along.

This time, however, someone new led the class. A bunch of kids she didn’t know easily practiced steps she had yet to learn.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said as she bowed off the mat during warm-up. She pulled my arm around her. Her eyes were wide and wet.

“Everyone here was new once,” I whispered back. “They all understand.”

Emma is a brave child. She has no qualms about letting the world know what she wants and whether she is being treated fairly. She is kind and generous.

She is also cautious and hard on herself. And that makes trying new things tough.

Coincidentally, her little brother is rarely shy. He calls everyone else his size “friend.” And if he tries something new and doesn’t get it right away, he just channels Frank Sinatra. “I do it like this,” he says.

Right before Emma’s class, Benny had soccer. Keep in mind, the players are ages 3 and 4. Some of them, however, are mini David Beckhams, zeroing in on the net and landing perfect kicks.

Benny has a different approach. “I love the ball,” he chirped as he hugged it tight to his chest. Of course he wouldn’t kick it. That would be rude.

“Hey, Mama!” he called from across the gym. “Are you OK?”

“Yes, Benny, I am fine, but could you please put the ball on the ground?”

Benny hugged it closer.

A few seconds later, again from across the gym, “I love you, Mama!”

“I love you, too, Benny. Kick the ball!” He ignored me.

And, just when I thought this was a waste of time — and money — he stood in front of the net, stopped the ball and tossed it to his coach. A prideful grin split his face.

“He’s a natural goalie,” the father sitting next to me whispered.

Here, at Emma’s martial arts class, my pride showed through as my little girl bowed back onto the mat. Emma didn’t always know what she was doing, and for the first few minutes, I saw her swipe at her watering eyes. But she stuck with it.

The instructor came to her and patiently modeled each move. At one point, the rest of the class — about 20 or so children in all — waited while Emma perfected her front snap kick. Not one of them sighed. No one rolled his eyes. They stood and watched with respect. No longer embarrassed, the red blotches faded on her face and her eyes lit up. In that moment, she knew she could do this.

And that’s why we were there. Because right now, Emma knows she is beautiful. She knows that she’s strong. She knows she is loved and worthy of protecting.

But she is only 6, and adolescence and life are sure to batter that knowledge. I hope martial arts and the quiet confidence that goes with it will be another tool to keep her self-assuredness intact.

“I did it, Mama!” she said at the end of class, running back to my arms. “At first, I didn’t like it, but now I love it!”

And that’s well worth three hours a week.

Beth Vrabel lives in West Manchester Township with her daughter, Emma, 6, and son, Benny, 3. For a free subscription to Smart, visit www.smartmamapa.com/subscribe.

At 39 weeks pregnant, I can’t think about anything except going into labor.

Is it going to happen now?

How about now?

Maybe now?

I worry that my water will break while I’m at work, when I’m in a meeting, while I’m driving or while I’m in bed.

I’ve considered putting plastic on my couch, which is only a year old, because I don’t want to ruin it.

I’m exhausted from the worrying.

And, although this is my second child, I don’t really know what real labor feels like or what to expect.

With my daughter, I was induced because she was a week late.

When I woke up on Aug. 8, 2005, I knew I was going to have a baby in the near future. I remember putting on makeup, doing my hair and fussing over what to take to the hospital.

I spent 48 hours in Memorial Hospital being pumped full of pitocin to bring on contractions. A doctor broke my water. And I opted for an epidural sometime during the second day of labor.

Although the overall experience wasn’t much fun, and my daughter still didn’t come until she was ready, at least I had a schedule.

Right now, there is no schedule. Just a due date, which I know could come and go without a hint of a contraction.

My husband joked recently that we should always be showered and ready to go to the hospital, just in case.

But I know that it doesn’t matter how much I plan, my little boy is going to come when the time is right for him, not for me.

In other Eberle family news: My daughter never ceases to amaze me.

Just when I think I have her figured out, even a little bit, she does something I never expected.

Take this past Saturday night, for example.

My husband and I were lounging on the couch with Mara stretched out between us. We were watching TV, counting down the minutes until bedtime. Mara seemed to be winding down.

It was a rare moment of peace and relaxation that I should’ve known couldn’t last.

“Mara, get your toe out of your eye!”

I heard my husband say the words but didn’t comprehend them right away.

Then I looked at our daughter, who was curled in half, pushing the big toe on her left foot into her left eye.

“Mara!” I said. “What on Earth would possess you to put your toe in your eye?”

Instead of answering, she stopped poking herself in the eye and stuck her toe in her mouth.

“Eh! Get your toe out of your mouth!” I yelled, mostly because I was shocked by her bizarre behavior.

Mara, who had apparently gotten the reaction she wanted, stopped sucking on her toe and laughed.

My husband and I looked at each other, shrugged and shook our heads. “At least she had a bath already,” I said.

We both knew why she acted up. We hadn’t been paying enough attention to her, because no amount of attention is ever enough for a 4-year-old.

Kara Eberle is editor of Smart. Sign up for a free subscription to the magazine at www.smartmamapa.com/subscribe.

Emma just walked by me. My 6-year-old girl is decked out in my wedding veil and a summer sundress despite the 17-degree weather.

Benny, age 3, is trailing behind her. Though it’s only 4 p.m., he is in his Spider-Man pajamas. Why? Because the Incredibles pajamas are in the wash.

Jasper, the puppy, isn’t far behind. He’s clutching a foam sword in his mouth.

Cabin fever has officially infected my house.

The children and I have been housebound for nearly a week, stuck indoors because of chilly weather. Making it even worse, Emma’s spent the week home from school, recovering from an illness. She’s not well enough for school but has plenty of energy for fighting/playing with her brother.

“You belong on stage with me! Not playing trains all day!” croons Emma, twirling in the living room, as Benny pushes Thomas the Tank Engine across the floor.

The kids are allowed to watch one movie a day. In the past four days, she has watched “High School Musical III,” “Mamma Mia” and “The Sound of Music.” She now believes she lives in a musical.

“I have a necklace, tremendous, reckless necklace!”

Today, they watched the “The Incredibles.”

“I’m ‘credible,” Benny announced as the credits rolled. Soon, he was in his super-hero PJs and wielding his foam sword.

Jasper, anxious for all of us to get back to our regular routine and leave him to sleeping on top of our beds or dirty laundry, swipes the sword when Benny puts it down. Feeling generous, Benny switches to his light saber.

Benny’s fights with imaginary machines punctuate Emma’s operatic performances with grunts, growls and the occasional howl. “You’re not mmmmeeee! You’re very small! HI-YAH! For a while, we had it aaaallll! POW!”

And how am I coping with this epidemic? Massive amounts of coffee and a shameful amount of Facebooking. It’s the closest thing I’ve got to adult interaction, and I’m using it. Does anyone really need to know that Benny just declared his superhero name to be Stinkerbutt?

No, of course not. But I post it anyway.

Of course, I’ve tried to pack our days with fun stuff. We baked cupcakes and delivered them to our neighbors. We had a birthday party for Jasper (yeah, I know he’s a dog). We made puppets and painted pictures, built play-dough menageries and pretended we were Cinderella (a sneaky method to get the kids to help clean).

But eventually, it’s 4 o’clock, and the coffee has dulled. The kids have to entertain themselves for that hour before dinner prep.

Uh-oh. There is screaming in the hallway. Emma is sitting clutching her eye. Benny is on his stomach holding his knee. “What did you do?” I ask.

Now, I recognize that it isn’t entirely reasonable for my first reaction upon seeing my children clutching body parts to be an accusation. But I can tell from the type of howls that they’re not hurt. They’re just irritated with each other. That’s something I can sympathize with.

The excuses tumble quickly from their tiny lips. “Emma pushed!” “Benny kicked!” I sigh. “Both of you, to your rooms.”

Ah. A brief moment of peace amid the epidemic. A very brief moment.

From Emma’s room I hear: “It’s a glamorous life!”

You said it, Emma.

My 5-year-old son, Vincent, tells the truth.

Well, more specifically, he tells the truth on others.

In other words, he’s a tattletale.

I don’t think this is a bad thing. Vincent is telling the truth, which I taught him to do. Sometimes, though, his truthfulness is not convenient for someone trying to hide something, which my husband learned recently.

A few nights ago, Vincent came to me while I was sitting in the living room.

“Mom, come here,” he whispered.

“What Vincent?” I asked.

“No, not here. Come into the kitchen,” he whispered in my ear. “We need to be alone.”

When we were alone, Vincent began a cryptic story. “It’s about all the money you spent on dad’s clothing,” he said.

“What? I don’t understand,” I said.

“Mom, it’s about the money (for) the clothes you bought Dad for Christmas. And Dad bought some coffee, but didn’t use the cup holder in the car,” he said.

I still wasn’t sure what he was trying to tell me, but I eventually pieced together the story:

-I bought my husband a hooded jacket for Christmas.
-I didn’t see it hanging on a chair, which was odd, since my husband never hangs up his coats (an annoying habit I just have to live with).

-My husband likes to run out for coffee and bring it back home.

I went back in the living room and asked William where his hooded jacket was. William looked at me and then at our son. “Thanks, Vincent,” he said, knowing that Vincent had called him out.

“What happened? Did you spill coffee on your sweatshirt?” I asked.

“Yes, but just a little,” he said.

“Ha,” I said. “Vincent told me what you did. That’s pretty funny.”

“Yeah, real funny,” said William looking at Vincent.

But Vincent was unfazed. “I didn’t tattletale on you dad,” he said. “I just told the truth.”

“That’s a good thing,” I said.

Later that night, I talked to William about the incident.

“I think it’s good he tells the truth,” I said.

“Yeah, but he might get himself into trouble,” William said. “Nobody likes a tattletale.”

At the end of conversation we both agreed that it’s good Vincent tells the truth, even if it’s a bit excessive at times.

And I think it’s pretty funny that Vincent tattles on his dad.

I think Vincent gets a kick out of it, too.

Samantha Dellinger is the graphic designer for Smart.

A couple weeks ago, Emma, my 6-year-old girl, had a severe, unusual reaction to an antibiotic. This landed her in the hospital overnight. Putting into words the fear, stress and worry of not knowing what was wrong or how to help her is impossible. I could barely breathe.

Emma, however, sums up the experience succinctly: “At least the food was good.”

Yes, I realize what this says about the quality of my cooking.

At first, I thought her love of hospital food was because she was super hungry.

“Do you know I haven’t had any lunch?” she told a nurse a few hours after being admitted.

The nurse explained that the IV in her arm was giving her body “a drink.”

Emma wasn’t satisfied with that. (In fact, getting the IV was the first sign that my spunky girl was on the rebound. A nurse had tried to distract her, asking her a few inane questions. “My name is Emma, but I don’t want to talk about that right now. I want to talk about what you’re doing to my arm!”)

The nurse gave her a stubby pencil and a menu, telling her she could circle whatever she wanted to eat.

“That was the most delicious dinner!” Emma told a doctor the next morning. “I had a hamburger, fruit salad, mashed potatoes with gravy, carrots and celery, ice cream and pretzels. And this morning, I had blueberry pancakes!”

“Mmm … do you think your mom could make you something as good? Because you can go home today,” he said with a grin. Emma shot me an appraising look. Yes, she was excited to go home. But she was going to miss the cafeteria food.

I should count my blessings that my girl isn’t a picky eater. I’ve heard horror stories of kids who only eat chicken nuggets or white foods. Emma will try anything. She adores Japanese food and shovels California rolls into her mouth with chopsticks. She claps with delight when we have black beans for dinner.

There are a lot of things I’m good at. Cooking isn’t one of them.

So I have a bit of a reputation. Seriously, all it takes is two dinner parties featuring pink-in-the-middle chicken and your family restricts you to preparing side dishes forever. I haven’t served undercooked poultry in a decade, but it’s still the family joke.

Jon makes all of our weekend meals, and during the week, I usually keep to Crock-Pot recipes, salads and sandwiches.

Maybe it heralds from the time I baked Jon’s birthday cake. He wanted angel food, and I thought all that talk about it needing special baking dishes was hype. So I baked it in a regular cake pan. Then I filled in the resulting valley with jam. Still not bad. But then the jam got absorbed, so I filled it in with sprinkles. And covered it all up with icing.

The looks of horror among my family as their bites of cake crunched are still a bit haunting.

Maybe it was maternal instincts gone into overdrive from seeing Emma so ill, but during the week she spent resting at home following her discharge, I tried to revamp that bad reputation.

I started small. I made pancakes. They were charred and undercooked, all at once. Jon took over and I took small pride in the homemade batter.

“What do you want for dinner? You can have anything you want at all,” Jon told Emma the day she was discharged. “Daddy’s famous barbecue ribs.” Emphasis on the “Daddy.”

I moved on to a “can’t miss” bread recipe. It looked like a brain and felt like a brick. I served chunks of it alongside Jon’s steamed shrimp when my parents came over for dinner. “The flavor is good, sort of,” Mom said. “But you know you can’t eat this. Not without chipping a tooth.”

Emma held up a piece of perfect store-bought bread. “Can you try to make the bread like this next time?” she asked.

I’m not giving up. So what if my pot roast isn’t up to par with the industrialized cooking served in cafeterias and hospitals. Maybe someday it will be.

I told Emma I’m going to work on my cooking.

“Have you ever heard of tater tots?” she asked sweetly.

Beth Vrabel lives in West Manchester Township with her daughter, Emma, 6, and son, Benny, 3.

My baby boy is due in a month.

Of course, I’m worrying about the little guy’s health, labor and delivery, and how I’m going to lose my baby weight. But I also can’t stop wondering how my daughter is going to adjust to sharing the spotlight.

For four-and-a-half years, Mara has been our princess. We dote on her constantly and have probably spoiled her a little bit.

If you’re familiar with the scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion and the Tin Man are being pampered before seeing the wizard, you have some idea of what it looks like when my husband and I get Mara ready to go somewhere.

But that’s all going to change when we bring home our little boy.

I wonder how I will find time to read Mara a story at bedtime when I have a crying baby in my arms. What will Mara think when she sees me rock the baby to sleep, something that I did with her until she got too big for my lap?

My husband and I have tried to prepare her for the new arrival, and my pregnancy has already helped her to grow up in some ways.

I stopped carrying her, unless absolutely necessary (although Daddy indulges her when she asks). I make her pick up her toys and clean up her own messes, chores I hadn’t enforced pre-pregnancy. And she has gotten better at dressing herself, which is a big help.

These changes didn’t come without struggle, though.

When my belly started to grow and my back began to ache, I told Mara that she needed to walk down the stairs, instead of being carried. For weeks she refused, standing at the top, crying and demanding that I carry her. I’m not sure how long it took for the tantrums to stop, but Mara now holds my hand as she walks down the steps each morning.

As for her messes, we’re still looking for the cure to a mysterious “illness” that seems to overcome Mara when she’s told to clean up after herself. “My arms are tired,” she tells me. “My legs are tired of walking.”

Within minutes, though, I can find her climbing on the back of the couch or running around the living room, so I don’t think it’s a serious condition. Eventually, she gets around to picking up her toys, but it takes many reminders.

Thankfully, not everything has been a struggle. Sometimes, Mara surprises me, in a good way.

When she goes with me to checkups at the “baby doctor,” the nurses give her stickers. Instead of pocketing them for herself, she puts the stickers on my belly, saying they’re for her baby brother.

Before she goes to sleep at night, she gives my belly a hug and a kiss.

Sometimes, she crawls onto my lap (what’s left of it anyway) and tells the baby a secret. Then she puts her ear to my belly and giggles, as though he told her a funny joke in return.

When I see her interact with her brother, even at this early stage, I’m comforted.

And I know there will be enough room in the spotlight for both Mara and our little boy.

Kara Eberle is editor of Smart. Sign up for a free subscription to the magazine at www.smartmamapa.com/subscribe.

By BETH VRABEL, Smart Mama

“Bus stop,” Benny, age 3, murmured during a recent nap.

Earlier in the day, he fervently whispered “Kermit the Frog” from the backseat while we were running errands.

“What about Kermit?” I had asked him.

“Nothing,” he said. “Secret.”

Though Benny has a great vocabulary and has no difficulty expressing his needs and wants, I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever fully understand what he’s thinking.

Take, for example, the recent birthday party we attended at a local restaurant. The 10 or so children, each 4 or younger, sat at a long table munching on cupcakes and chicken nuggets. The kids were pretty calm, probably because they had spent the half-hour before running like feral cats around the indoor playground.

All that changed when the restaurant’s mascot — a cow — joined the party. Half the kids rushed the costumed waiter, giving him high-fives and clapping with joy.

The other half shrieked in terror.

Benny was among the latter.

“I don’t like that cow,” he told me. But he did like his cupcake and refused to abandon it as he fled to my arms, even though that meant squishing it against his chest.

“But look at your friends,“ I told him. “Your friends love the cow. The cow’s dancing!”

Benny shuddered. Beside him, a little girl glared at the bovine. “Cows don’t have fur like that,” she declared. “That’s not a real cow. That’s a costume.”

The news spread faster than flu germs among the preschoolers.

Benny scrutinized the cow. I wondered if he had remembered visiting a dairy farm last summer. Back then, he had ventured close to the animals, his eyes wide as he looked over the hundred or so cows. “Wow,” his big sister Emma, age 6, had said.

“Yeah,” Benny had answered. “Look at all those penises!”

“Those are udders,” I corrected, which, thanks to Emma’s ceaseless curiosity, had led to a whole line of questioning about how mothers, including cows and people, make milk to feed their babies. That tangent ended with Emma saying, “I feel sort of gross now” and me wishing fervently that the children would remember seeing the chickens and not so much the cows.

I took back that wish now as I held Benny in front of this party cow that stood on two feet and posed for pictures. “I think he’s a real cow,” Benny whispered to me.

“Nope, just a costume,” I whispered back.

What exactly was scary about this goofy mascot?

I don’t know, but he certainly wasn’t alone in his fear. After a few minutes, the waitress standing next to the cow started to lead it toward the kids sitting on their mothers’ laps. “No!“ the mothers called out. “Stay over there.”

I couldn’t help but think about Emma, who was in school. When she was 3, she chased poor Big Bird at Sesame Place theme park, only stopping when Bird’s bodyguards intervened. “Big Bird’s happy to see you,” the guard had told Emma. “But he has a show to do now.”

Emma bristled with disappointment and then reverted to stalking Elmo. Zero fear. She totally would’ve been shaking her booty with the cow.

After we got home from the party, Benny settled down for a nap. His new balloon was tied to the headboard and he watched it bobbing as he fell asleep.

“I liked that party,” he said softly. “I liked that cow.”

Beth Vrabel lives in West Manchester Township with her daughter, Emma, 6, and son, Benny, 3. You can read more Smart Mama columns here.

By SAMANTHA DELLINGER, Smart Mama

I’m happy to say the Wii has nothing on my son’s imagination.

Our Christmas morning was filled with the usual ripping of paper, followed by piles of empty boxes that covered the floor.

When all was said and done, my husband had to hook up a Nintendo Wii and assemble some Lego Star Wars ships.

I was sure the Wii would be the highlight for my 5-year-old son, Vincent. He had been asking about a Wii for some time.

I thought that once the video game was hooked up he’d be immediately engaged in some game for hours.

But, I was pleasantly surprised to see my son sitting at the dining room table with his father, who was putting together the Lego ships.

Vincent and William spent the better part of the morning working on the Starfighter and Separatist Shuttle.

Vincent put together the little figurines of R2-D2, Han Solo, robot droids and a bunch of other alien characters that I didn’t know the names for. And William painstakingly put each block together.

“You do realize Vincent will have that ship taken apart in minutes,” I said.

“Yeah, I know,” William said.

Meanwhile, Vincent watched patiently as his dad worked.

“Dad, are you done yet?” Vincent asked.

“Almost,” William replied.

“Why don’t you go play the video game Dad hooked up for you and sissy,” I suggested.

“No, that’s OK, Mom,” Vincent replied.

I was really delighted by Vincent’s choice to wait for his dad to finish building the Lego ships, instead of running immediately to the video game. It was nice to see father and son spending time together. And I could tell they both were enjoying the project, too.

It took an hour, but William finished building the ships. And no one was more excited than Vincent.

“Done! Now be careful Vincent,” William said.

“OK, Dad. I will,” said Vincent as he grabbed the ship and proceeded to fly it in his tiny hands.

We both knew it was only a matter of time until Vincent broke the ships.

But, there was something more I knew as I watched Vincent play. He set up his little Lego men to battle on some distant planet. He zoomed his ships in the air and occasionally crashed them. That’s when the ship’s mechanic (Dad) would be called in to fix the damage.

I knew the Wii was fun and had a lot of bells and whistles, but what it didn’t have was the creative freedom of the Legos.

Vincent has played the Wii since Christmas, but he’s definitely having more fun with his Legos.

And I’m having just as much fun watching him make believe.

“This is the best Christmas ever!” Vincent yelled on Christmas Day.

I think it was, too.

Samantha Dellinger is the graphic designer for Smart. For more Smart Mama columns, click here.