It’s nice to have a boyfriend who comes over and reads two books to small one (one of which is entirely not age appropriate and therefore frustrating to reader and child), walks up the road with us, plays horses, laughs at karaoke versions of The Ship Song, and tolerates flatulence from small one while on his lap.
Small one has known for some time how to hold on but steadfastly refused to use anything resembling a potty or toilet. I thought this refusal may have been due to the boring potty design, so I bought a Winnie the Pooh toilet seat.
No love there.
So I threw out the five dollar ikea red potty, put aside the Winnie the Pooh toilet seat, and bought a seventy-five dollar contraption that SINGS when you wee in it, and he still refused to use it.
It is a happy potty, you see, one that small one chose online with me. Of course, after ordering it, he wanted to use it right away, not understanding the time-space contingencies of the internet.
When it arrived? No love there either. Instead, he developed a penchant for weeing outside on bushes during one weekend visit to Mudgee. Do we have bushes? No. A large tree is, however, out the front of our house. It did the trick for a day or so.
That is, until the neighbours caught small one needing to pee, he freaked out and did not pee, and the next day chose to sit on the potty. And WEE IN IT!
The lovely tune it emitted delighted all within ear shot. He and I. Since then, it’s all about the happy potty.
Sometimes I swear I’m turning in to the mother I swore I would never be. Especially when he wears disney-inspired hoodies.
Small one, still, goes to bed with several matchbox cars. The recent gifting from his grandparents of a Hot Wheels carrying case, containing 48 said cars, supports the inclination addiction.
This morning, he helped six of his animals - who also share his bed - get to sleep in the sunroom. The sunroom changes from hospital, to library, to dance space, depending on need.
The bears, tigers, elmo and big bird were all draped in pyjamas and socks belonging to small one, and each given a car to soothe their worries to sleep.
Sleeping in a tent,
back and ears that don’t hurt,
and a child that asks where is everybody?
Sunshine on green grass,
homemade scones and pancakes,
tofu on a barbeque,
following butterfly lamb.
Sitting around the table,
family abounding,
with a man who can swing an axe.
I work in an academic environment. Where, most of the time, I don’t get too much direction from my boss about what my job is or should be. Sometimes, however, LIKE TODAY, the inner micro-manager comes out.
He comes out and says things like the font on that flyer - it should be sans serif - serifs are those things on times new roman. Because I couldn’t possibly know what sans serif might mean. The orders come flooding out of his mouth, as if a dam wall has burst, and only stop when the man has finished his orders.
Now, I fixed the freakin’ flyer, sent it to him once more and - hold on - IT STILL HAD PROBLEMS. The font still isn’t right - what font did you use? - why doesn’t it work - it looks terrible - let me see your screen.
He leans over my shoulder, sees that the font is as ARIAL as all get out, and demands me to look at his screen. I go to his monitor and, true enough, it looks like poo. His computer must be eating his fonts and spitting them out in vomit form.
Despite this - this font issue not being my fault and clearly something to do with his computer - there is no revision of the terse tone/words. Of course not. Just keep blundering on to the next one.
Small one and I promenade in the morning and most afternoons too, when we’re not at our respective institutions. On one recent afternoon stroll/bike ride/scoot (I walk, small one rides his balance bike or scooter), a small boy on his scooter turned the corner at the same time as we crossed the road.
Both boys looked at each other and started scooting. The boy was taller than small one but both had equal scooting proficiency.
I’m Sam.
I’m small one.
You’re two.
No, I’m three.
I’m three too.
Okay.
I’m Sam.
I’m small one.
When small one was very very small, I would sing him to sleep, while rocking him with a slight bouncing-walk motion. Those who subscribe to any routine-y method for newborns would gasp in horror there, I guess. My shock was how frequently I would have to sing out loud, often in semi-public places, to get my newborn to be calm.
However, I have always believed that singing is good for kids, and hence their carers, if you mean it. A research project at UWS - reported at the source below - involves investigating why it is that singing to a child to elicit emotional responses works so well. I wonder what they will find. To sing is to be?
Back to small one. You are my sunshine is one song that was on high rotation for some time. Today, after reading about the research of singing it for the kids, I remembered that I could try it, even though he’s well past newbornhood. I opted to replace pleas of
Please, small one, do a poo. It’s good for you.
or
Please, small one, don’t run away just because it’s fun to watch my scared face over your shoulder as you dash.
with You are my sunshine.
It delivered some positive outcomes. The teeth were cleaned, bath participated in and bed complied with, sans cries of
I don’t like it.
For today at least. After the seventh rotation this evening, small one himself was singing
Please don’t take
My sunsine away.
(Source: smh.com.au)
[video]
A month of sobriety: done with yoga and Rochester’s NON-ALCOHOLIC Ginger. And a little help from my friends. (No this is not a sponsored post).
“Can I Speak Mister Dick Please?” —
T-shirts I Have Seen Worn on the Streets of Beijing This Slogan Was On a Man’s Cargo Shorts—Front Pocket, Along the Thigh (via notquitelocal)
Ha! Shouldn’t every man own a pair of these shorts?
(Source: notquitelocal-olderposts)