Braden started a “Kid’s Day Out” program today. He’ll be going there twice a week for about 4.5 hours.
I made a joke on Twitter last night about it, where I may have said something like, “Braden is starting a “Kid’s Day Out” program tomorrow. I’m sad. And by sad, I mean, HELL YEAH BITCHEZ!!!!!!!!!!!1!1 *cough*”
Give or take a Hell yeah. Or a few exclamation points. Or something.
Okay, okay so those were my exact words.
I was really just kidding. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve had this written on my calendar for MONTHS in bright red ink, circled in double-wide black sharpie marker with large, swooping circles and underlined with pink glitter pen ink that almost screams I CAN’T WAIT, HOLY CRAP, I CAN’T WAIT.
Who would do something like that? Pffft. Not me, that’s who. I’m a loving parent who never takes a moment with her son for granted.
No, you may not borrow my calendar to check on something real quick. Get your own damn calendar.
And it isn’t like I’m insanely stocked on party streamers and noise makers and booze and practically did flips all the way home from the damn place today. What kind of horrible parent do you take me for?
(Do not pay any attention to that pile of streamers and noise makers and booze over there. I am collecting for Goodwill. That’s the donation pile. Shut up. People who shop at Goodwill have to party too, DON’T THEY? Look at you, all High and Mighty, all “only us highly privileged people get to have parties with streamers and noise makers and booze.” You disgust me.)
Furthermore, I didn’t run out the door without even saying “Goodbye” to him, or telling the teacher his name. I didn’t forget to leave his lunch with him, and just throw it at one of the windows of the building as I was running away, deliriously screaming (or doing flips). And I didn’t yell something like, “YOU MAY NEVER SEE ME AGAIN!!!!” followed by mad cackling so loud it scared the birds out of the trees in a three mile radius.
I’m kind of baffled that you would even think any of those things. Where did you come up with that crap? Are you mentally unstable? I think you might need help.
I’d have to be as insane as you clearly are to do any of those things. I mean, I’d have to be plain out of my mind to do anything other than have been excited for him for the past week while at the same time feeling a weird tightness in my chest that I couldn’t shake.
I’d have to be kind of a crazy lunatic not to realize that, while cliched, this is literally the start of a long process where my child starts to cleave from me. This is a thing I am both carefully, joyfully, preparing him for with everything I do for him every day and dreading with all the tiny fibers in my heart – the heart that clenched up a little this morning when I kissed him goodbye and I had to leave.
But I’m cool with it. Yeah, totally. I didn’t feel kind of angsty while I was packing his lunch, I didn’t get a little sentimental when I wrote his name on a tag for his backpack, my heart didn’t swell and smoosh when I watched him walking to school with his Daddy, I didn’t take too many photos of him on his first day of school, and I didn’t frown a little when I got home and the house was blessedly quiet.
This will be good for him.
I hope I can survive it.
(The booze will help. WOOOHOOOOOOOOO!)
Braden’s personality is this incredibly intoxicating blend of sweet, joyful, and smart mixed up with volatile, demanding, and loud. I’m going to go ahead and claim responsibility for passing on/modeling the former behaviors and blame my husband for the latter. Not because it’s true, but because I’m mostly an asshole and I like to say anything I can to make myself look good.
My son is not shy. He is unafraid to let you, and everyone around you, know exactly what he thinks and feels at any particular moment.
His thoughtful observations and questions [“If the bug is dead, we should just recharge his batteries.” / “Why is the sun sleeping?”]
strange ideas [“My penis is on backwards.”]
silly, quick quips [Him: “You need to get me a new eyeball!” Me: “Just call me Frankenmommy.” Him: “You’re not green.”]
and even his demanding and frustrated exclamations [“I CAN’T GO PEE, I HAVE TO DANCE FIRST.”]
are equally interesting and enlightening, often funny.
He’ll make you think and also laugh.
But did I mention that he’s loud? Holy crap, he’s LOUD. As John put it the other day, “He goes to 11. And often stays there.”
It’s so true.
Because of this, I was both excited and somewhat scared (okay, more than somewhat, possibly a shitload at times, when I considered it too carefully) about Braden’s very first time on an airplane. In fact, as soon as I found out we were going to get on an airplane with him, I started punching myself in the face no less than 10 times every 30 minutes to toughen myself up. I asked John to make airplane noises and then start screaming directly into my ear at random times when we’re in public to help condition me. For some reason he made the same face he made that one time I asked him how long he thought it would take for a mouse to explode in the microwave and whether or not that time would be altered by getting the mouse really drunk first.Read More»
It’s no secret to me (and the world at large) that my child is freaking adorable.
Go ahead, roll your eyes and gag a little. It’s okay. I don’t mind. But he is brilliantly handsome, and that’s just a fact.
And when his hair gets all shaggy, I think it gives him this sweet charm.
But it’s summertime now – a time when little ones get especially hot and sweaty. He’s been batting at his hair, getting annoyed with it. I’ve been watching it inch closer to his eyes, slowly. Haircut time has been approaching.
I knew this was coming and I’ve had… plans.
When he got so incredibly frustrated with it last week that he started slapping at the side of his head and growling, I asked him if he wanted a haircut. His response was, “YES, MOMMY. OH. YES.”
So I told him I’d cut it soon and asked him if he wanted the kind of haircut I was thinking of giving him. He said yes without a pause. I asked him if he knew what that meant. He just looked at me and smiled. I laughed and saved the definition for later.
Yesterday, I showed him a photo to see if he was sure. The child smiled so largely that his face almost broke.
“Do you want me to cut your hair like that?”
“Oh, yes, Mommy! Yes, that’s right!”
And then he bounded off and head butted the dog a few times before howling and racing into the kitchen, where he slammed into the cabinets, bounced back, and rolled across the floor laughing.
I’m pretty sure it suits his personality.
“Mommy! Take a picture of my bum!”
“Did you take the picture of my bum?”
“No, Mommy! NO TAKING PICTURES OF MY FACE.”
“But take a picture of my hands, Mommy!”
“Thank you, Mommy! Good job, Mommy.”
any day with him is filled with all kinds of emotions…
some highs and some lows, curious adventures,
and the fantastic and beautiful little things
that, without him, I’d
His very first cone of ice cream to eat all on his own was a waffle cone bigger than his head. He loved it deeply.
It loved him back. They became one in a melty explosion of chocolate toddler happiness.
You just can’t stand in the way of a love so deep (and sticky) as this – you just put it outside, watch the sweet carnage unfold, laugh and take lots of photos.
Mark it down on the list of fun stuff I’ll miss witnessing one day.
For a very long time, this is a rule that Braden has respected. Hey, if Mommy says fingers in the nose is a “no-no” and there’s even a book backing her up, it must be true.
But now we have reached the Age of Contrary. We see evidence of this with classic conversations like, “Here’s your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” “NO. Dat’s not peanut butter jelly sandwich, DAT’S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY.”
And who could not see the genius in “Sit down at the table now.” “NO, I HAVE TO SIT IN DIS CHAIR NOW.” (The chair at the table.)
And if it’s fun to say “NO” to things just so you can restate them in a different way, well, then it must also be delightful to do things that have been forbidden. It’s all just part of the same circle of fun, right? Of course it is!
Life without testing the boundaries is boring, my friends. And the boundary between fingers and boogers is just SCREAMING TO BE BROKEN.
I mean, just look at how much fun this little dingaling is clearly having!
And so it goes, the boy realized that perhaps even if the book and The Mommy say fingers in the nose is not so groovy a thing to do, it can, in theory, still be done. And so he tested this idea, and found that yes, it can be done, and in fact, he quite enjoys sticking his fingers in his nose.
Over and over again.
it kills me that he can make even booger picking cute
Though it is clearly quite a bother to request a tissue before nostril exploration has begun, apparently it is no problem at all to do the same thing once one’s finger has been befouled. He walks over to me with his finger stuck out in front of him, a fine specimen riding the peak of his pointer, and says, “Put my booger in a tissue.”
Such gifts he presents to me, and lo, they take my breath away. It is an honor, such an honor.
And hey, I guess I have some idea of where he gets the appreciation for sticking things in his nostrils.
At least he’s not sticking other things in his nose.
Thanks to Books from Birth and Dolly Parton, Braden gets a free book every month, which is all kinds of awesome. Recently, his new book was The House That Jack Built. I was pleased – that’s a cute story!
Then I read it to him at bedtime.
It screamed “COCK!” at us.
No, seriously. Look:
And really, I can’t read this to him a single freaking time without picturing a giant wang all up in Jack’s house.
And yes, I know that a “cock” is a rooster. I also know that “gay” means happy and a “fag” is a cigarette. And yet, I wouldn’t say that a happy farmer smoking a cigarette next to his rooster is a gay dude tokin’ a fag by his cock.
And you probably have a lovely mental image that illustrates exactly why.
So. Thanks for this book selection, Dolly.
(Who, incidentally, I can never think of without picturing… you know damn well what.)