The Communicator
Eleanor: Mom – can you get me a favor? [translation: can you DO me a favor?]
Me: Sure honey – what’s that?
Eleanor: Well…a favor means…
Me: Yeah – I know what “a favor” means, Eleanor. What do you want?
We’ve been re-enacting this same conversation over and over for the past couple of weeks. Like we both have amnesia until she attempts a definition for “favor.” It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day.
The Anthropologist
George: Only MommiesDaddies do dat!
George is so often being told that he is not allowed to do whatever it is he is doing: brandishing cleaning spray…climbing closet shelves…turning on the garden hose… And much of the time, it’s something that only grownups are allowed to do. So “only mommies and daddies” has become a bit of a mantra in his life.
As he’s puzzled out the various responsibilities and amenities of each family member’s role, it has apparently become clear to him that ANYTHING he can’t to is something that “only mommies and daddies” can do:
No climbing on furniture – only MommiesDaddies!
No eating boogers – only MommiesDaddies!
No running around outside naked – only MommiesDaddies!
Yes – Chris and I have quite the life…
The Reason that I Look About 10 Years Older Than I Actually Am
My oldest (just turned FIVE) son Oliver has many speech and communication delays/issues/what have you – so as a result, he has always been more of a man of action than words.
He does his fair share of chattering throughout the day, intelligible or not – but it’s when he goes radio silent that things get really interesting.
The other day, Eleanor came running downstairs saying, “mommy – look at Oliver’s hair – it’s CRAZY!” And since I had heard the water running for a while (yes – I ignore things like kids playing in the sink so I can get some work done without interruptions) I pretty much knew what to expect.
Sure enough, when Oliver appeared seconds later – his wet hair was swirled into an arresting version of a shiny faux hawk. I smiled and started with my ever-indulgent “OH – Oliver…” but stopped mid-OH. His hair wasn’t wet. It was slick. And after a quick reconnaissance mission to the kids’ bathroom – I found just what I had feared: an empty jar of Vaseline.
This is exactly the kind of thing that makes it impossible for me to place full blame on my husband for the kids using swear words.
Even after scrubbing Oliver’s head with real shampoo (which was a huge hit once the eye stinging set in), I still couldn’t get all of it out. And for the next several days he looked like he over did it a bit on product.
A post for another day will be about how I have to lock all the doors in our house and hide common household products in strange places so my childproof lock foiling children can’t get to them. They especially love anything that can be sprayed. This has triggered a Pavlovian response in me to become wary whenever I enter a room and notice that it smells particularly good.
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ELSEWHERE:
On Wishing True…
Sweet giveaway at Reverie-Daydream
On As Good As Cake…
Last day to enter the Didn’t I Feed You Yesterday? giveaway!
