June 23, 2017
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My three-year-old little man didn’t wake especially early, but the rest of the house was still asleep. I’d been up for an hour enjoying the easy quiet of the house…wasting time as Mommies do when no one is around. It was too early for me to be roaming the house, but the lure of no one else around was too strong, and that’s why caffeine exists.
Eventually, my son treks downstairs, eating his banana in front of the sofa where I continue to lay. Upon finishing the prelude to his breakfast, he walks to the bookcase housing almost the entirety of our children’s reading collection, and chooses his latest passionate obsession.
Mr. Man climbs into my arms, snuggling close. My son has the tale mostly memorized…at least the first few pages, so he begins until it is my turn to take over. In a relatively hushed utterance I read each page, my son rapt. He periodically stops me to inquire about the illustrations…the reflection in the water…the rings around the fishing birds’ necks…asking if Ping looks happy. Small inquires like that are typical to my curious little boy. My son continued to burrow into the snuggle, telling his love for me during breaks between the repetitive story renditions.
Little Man and I agree to change his diaper after I read one of his favorite pigeon books.
But, just as the story concluded and Mr. Man sought the solitary image of the eaten hot dog among the tantalizing complete ones on the back cover, he heard Daddy stirring upstairs. The spell was broken. My son rushed to meet his hero. Simultaneously, Warrior Queen announced her awakened state with cries to join the morning rumble. I guess the diaper will wait…
October 30, 2015
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Little Man occasionally likes to make himself useful to his mommy…when he isn’t interfering with me cooking dinner by clutching my legs in an effort to prevent himself from floating away…gravity is apparently a problem in my house… The weather is turning cooler, and my skin is a barometer for the change. The mere hint of altered leaves, and the largest organ of my body begins to flake and tickle despite my perpetual greasing efforts.
My son and I are sitting stacking blocks into towers, well attempting to anyway. I announce that I am itchy. It doesn’t matter where the impulse occurs, as my son will pull at my right leg and with shear grit lift the material of my pants as high as he can manage…which isn’t all that high, incidentally. He is a terrible scratching apparatus, as his efforts are more of a sporadically placed light rub, but he revisits the same spot time and again that he envisions must be the chi for all of my experienced prickling. When he is convinced my discomfort has ceased, he returns my pant leg to its proper place and resumes his building and demolition efforts.