T. – Age 3.5 is becoming a Lego Duplo Junkie. He makes ships and cars and most recently something he calls a “Mickey Train,” complete with Dale the Chipmunk inside.
This is cool and all, but I nearly went down the stairs on a Mickey Lego head and had an unfortunate encounter with Lego Donald that cannot be discussed in polite company. I fully anticipate an awkward at best ER visit in my near future!
Go sit on the potty right now or the Lego Police Officer is going to get flushed!
Oddly enough, this one worked. 🙂
My son, T – Age 18 months, has not decided to speak much as yet. This has caused me much panic and angst: worries about what I’ve not done as a parent, mental-flagellation, and frustration over our inability to ask him what the heck he’s thinking.
On the flip side, it’s also occasionally pretty darn funny.
We have our imperfect methods of getting things across:
I remember when I was a little girl in school my friend Harla and I wrote a play for reading class called “Maggot Rice”. The script was just as disgusting as it sounds. The play was complete with a bag of fake vomit (truly inspired) and ghastly wrenching sounds and was the hit of the school. Super funny stuff!
When it’s your kid, especially the one who can’t even talk, it’s far less funny: gross yes, vaguely reminiscent of clam chowder (except with chunks of orange in it) yes – disgustingly clumpy and all over my clothes and foot, yes. Scary, yes. Funny? No.
You panic and worry. You feel horrible for them and helpless. Watching anything bad happen to a child is terrifying.
As you might guess, my son got ill tonight. He seems better and is sleeping peacefully. I will undoubtedly be lying in bed, awake and listening for much of the night.
What I find truly frightening is what actually just went through my mind while cleaning up the mess. I started thinking:
I feel I may have reached a new parenting low. Children’s programming has taken over my mind.
My daughter is now S. – Age 4 instead of S. – Age 3.5, and I admit, I am fighting off a bit of sadness and anxiety.
Her birthday was celebrated with sugar and fire (a la candle in donut as is tradition in my family among my sisters) and much fanfare, but after the stress of parties, etc. I fear my unchecked mind has had a little too much time to think.
My daughter becomes more interesting every day: drawing new things, creating amazing and bizarre stories in her head, pulling the most peculiar and yet somehow sensible logic and applying it to her world in the most fascinating ways. She has a memory like a fox for the most bizarre of details, loves music and art, and has an affinity for kindness and love that seems endless. Her beauty is becoming more mature, and at times I think I see glimpses of what she may look like even years from now with stunning clarity.
Don’t get me wrong: she can out-drama most 13 year olds and attempts Machiavellian schemes with maddening skill – and half the time has me pulling out my hair – but that is besides the point, and I am secretly proud of her more clever attempts.
I fall more in love with this kid every day, but at the same time, it is the realization of how quickly time passes, and how short a time I will really have with her, that floors me. I feel lucky and priviledged to have this child in my life – with all her blessings of hope and wonder at the world, and with it grows so the fear of its changing and moving on.
I am a mommy with pre-abandonment issues. On the last night of her third year, I admit I crawled into her little twin bed with her in the middle of the night, under a halo of butterflies and happiness and just laid there staring at that tiny face trying to soak it in so I would not forget any detail.
I push my fear to the background and try and focus all on my hopes for her future, and joy for my present with her – our present with her. She fills my house with love and madness, and is adored by her baby brother and parents. I must rejoice in this, and tell myself constantly that S – Age 4 will be even cooler, and that butterflies must be allowed to soar to truly live.
::Sniff::
I am one blessed mama.
I haven’t posted in a few days – partially because of the need for both hands: my little boy, T. – Age 14 months is all over the place. If I am not removing him from one dangerous location or another, I am extracting objects from his mouth!
As parents with a baby or toddler, there are many things you think you should be discussing. Perhaps you might talk about parenting strategies, or growth charts, or even your hopes and dreams for baby.
In my home? Somehow we are always talking about poop.
Because we had not found out what we were having with – well – either of our children but especially with the first, all of the baby stuff was pretty gender-neutral.
So when we got our precious baby girl, and she was old enough for her first baby swing, I pushed for pink. Truthfully, I think, I had figured, coming from a family of predominantly girls, it would not matter: clearly I would also have girls.
Which, of course, didn’t happen. And now that my son is old enough to enjoy such wonderful things, we are too cheap to buy another swing.
So- pink it is!
Luckily, my very macho son, T – Age 14 months, is far too cool to let color stand in the way of utter delight:
There are at least a few moments most days when I am jealous of my children.
They don’t worry about finances, they squeeze into cramped spaces readily, and have a capacity for fun and merriment that I can only longingly admire.
Best of all? At this point in their lives, the world and the people in it exist solely to cater to their needs and amusement!
Here are a few photo examples from just this weekend of childish glee:
The Mischief of Minions 