Let's take a quick inventory of my day thus far, shall we? 12:00 (Midnight): I think to myself, I should really go to sleep now. 12:45: I actually turn out the light. 1:25ish: I look at the clock and wonder why I'm still awake. 2:17: I am awakened by snivelling. Him: *snivel* *whine* *whimper* *snotsucking* Me: Huh? Wha? Monkey, what's the matter? Him: I can't find teetee! Waaahhhhhhh! Me: Oh, honey. It's okay. C'mon, we'll find him. I get out of bed and follow him back to his room, where we commence searching for ye olde nasty comfort rag in the serene glow of his Thomas night light. Him:...
Ways to not impress me with your supposed illness: talk non-stop in a low, gravelly voice to demonstrate how ill you are; devour the contents of your lunch bag and ask for more; ask to go outside to play; complain about staying inside; complain about not getting to watch television; later torment your little brother about what little TV you did get to watch in his absence; insist that you feel fine now in spite of how tragically afflicted you were just minutes ago; pitch a screaming hissy fit when you find out that no, we will not be attending "Family Fun Night" tonight on account of--oh,...
Perhaps I'll just theme today "Perplexing Conversations I Have With My Offspring." Me: So how was school today? Her: Undefectable. Me: What? Her: Undefectable. Me: C'mon, honey. What did you do today? Her: Un. De. Fect. Able! Me: Ummmm. Okay. What do you think that word means? Her: That it's not, y'know, affected by, um, stuff. Me: And how is that at all relevant to your day at school? Her: It just is. Me: Uh huh. At this point, I started thinking maybe she's smarter than I'm giving her credit for. Maybe she's getting at something that is simply beyond my ken, rather than being silly. I will...
My son is all about repetition. But as he gets older, his needs become more complicated, as do the scenarios he invents. A year ago, we started thusly: Him: Mama, say "I wish I had a little boy." Me: I wish I had a little boy. Him: Wah! Wah! Wah! Me: Oh, little boy! Where did you come from? Him: I'm lost! This would then be followed with liberal doses of snuggling and tickling. Time passed, and the drama started taking on a life of its own. It started sounding more like this: Him: Mama, say "I wish I had a little boy." Me: I wish I had a little boy. Him: Wah! Wah! Wah! Me: Oh, little boy!...
This is Mir. This is Mir wrangling children on a school morning before she's had some caffeine. Any questions? Me: Put that Polly down and get yourself downstairs to eat right now! Her: But she wants to come too! Me: FINE. But get down here. Him: Vitamin! Vitamin! Vitamin! Vitamin! Me: I'm getting it, buddy. Her: Mama! Come look! Me: What? No! Come down here! Him: Gimmegimmegimmegimme! Her: Mama! You have to see! *Monkey drops his vitamin on the floor* Me: Chickadee! Has Polly done something amazing and stupendous that is far more amazing and stupendous than all the things she did upstairs?...
So tired. Need more tea. And sleep. But sleep is unavailable, so I’ll make do with tea. Went to bed too late. Fell asleep; woke to a small boy at my bedside. “I’m poopy! Clean my butt!†I am so using that against him when he’s a teen. Cleaned, changed, and tucked him back into bed. Went back to sleep; woke to a small boy at my bedside. “Bad dream!†A quick rock in the chair and tucked back into bed. Eventually I fell asleep; he came back. “Get in!†I snarled. He stole the covers. *weeping* So very tired. (Happy,...
This morning started out like most other school mornings: Monkey came and had his snuggle and play time in bed with me, and once we heard Chickadee's alarm, we went to get her up. She didn't want to get up (shocking). She was too tired to get dressed (astonishing). She couldn't possibly brush her teeth (how interesting). It was when I had half-dragged her to the bathroom and she stood on the stool, listing to one side, toothbrush dangling from her mouth, and she started crying that she needed to lie down, that I began to suspect something was amiss. Fine, go lie down. While you're at it,...
pick·y: adj. Excessively meticulous; fussy. I thought I knew picky. I thought I knew picky eaters. And then, I met my son. It is at the core of maternal urges to nourish one's young. My youngest has stymied my attempts from the beginning. He had multiple nursing issues, and a delightful habit of projectile vomiting. When we finally moved on to solids, he loved to grab the spoon from my hand... so that he could play with it. Cheerios on the tray? Those were fun to stick to his head, sure. Then came the food allergies. And somehow we arrived here, at age four-and-a-half; and while I refuse to...
Chickadee will be getting off the bus in about ten minutes. Last week, she stayed to play with the neighbors for an hour one day after school. So of course we have to reciprocate. I invited the girls to come here, today. Have I mentioned that these neighbors have twin 7-year-olds and an 8-year-old? All girls. So they are all coming here this afternoon. And Monkey makes five! Five children in my house. Four girls ganging up on my little boy, most likely. I can hardly wait. And because I'm just not very smart, I cleaned the house. Because I don't want the neighbor to think I'm a slob. But even...
