Smiling at Crocodiles

Nice to meet you

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.

Over dinner

Yesterday, boyfriend and his tiny dog came over to visit.  Small one was delighted.  We walked and they played trains and I cooked dinner. It was spaghettini.  When I served the three plates, small one was reluctant to join the table for dinner.  

Enticement?  Not me asking him to please come have dinner, to join the party.  Of course not.  Rather, it was boyfriend slurping pasta into his mouth. 

Small one looked up once, twice, thrice: time to join the slurping.

After five slurps of his own, small one gave a hearty burp.

Boyfriend: Yeah, slurpin’ and burpin’.  That’s what I bring to the table.

Swapping notes on tarnished ears

Today the sun shone warmly and we snuck in some time at the park behind our house before the wind came up.  Some of small one’s friends were there.  They played cars, kicked a ball, went on bear hunts, swung up to the trees.  

Talk between carers slips in between running after escapee children and negotiating sharing.  I say carers because of the eight children playing there today, two carers were grandparents, one was a father, and three were mothers.  

I particularly like talking to parents of other highly spirited children - whatever their gender.  We tend to relate.  From sleep challenges to how to feed medicine to a resistant child, these parents don’t judge your own efforts.   

Anyway, the condition of my small one’s ears has constantly bemused anyone who has given him a bath.  They are dirt magnets.

Another boy’s mum at the park, someone who predominately gives organic food to her child, laughed as she noticed the dirt in her son’s ears.  

Oh god, they’re disgusting.  Really revolting.  I try to wash them!  How do they even attract all that dirt! He screams if I get anywhere near them.

I smiled back and told her how small one shares the same trait.  The consolation of other mothers.

Phlegm as spider webs

Small one has caught whatever the sickness was that persisted with me for nearly two weeks.  I know it must be the same because I can hear the crackly sound in his larynx that you can only hear when lying down.  It sounds like a rattle in your throat.

Last night at 3am, coughing attacks kept small one awake.  One of his insights as to what is happening to him included this question, after a particularly rough coughing session:

Yuk. Spider webs in mouth.  Milk?   

Life imitates art

One of the best things about reading books with my small one is the point when he performs the gestures as described in the text.  It could be three little kisses on the end of your nose, a hug before sleep, or singing along to lyrics.

I should start choosing books strategically to wrangle desired outcomes.  Like walk upstairs and jump into bed without a word of protest.  Or eat the yellow capsicum you keep demanding from the supermarket. 

At the beach

Australia Day 2011.  Small one unwilling to come into the water through the waves. 

Aunties refuse to take no as an answer.  Place small one on boogie board.  Then lift him over small breakers on yellow boogie board. 

‘Here comes Cleopatra,’ Aunty swimming with me states.

‘Yes.  I wonder where he gets that regal streak from.’ I reply.

Writers, and mothers, don’t get sick days

This maxim holds pragmatic truth.  You can’t get a medical certificate that will excuse you from looking after small ones.  Luckily I have several siblings who delight in their aunt/uncle status and nephew reciprocates.  

As for writing, why can’t one stab away at a few paragraphs for a blog read by not very man?  It’s hardly taxing, physically at least.

And yet, I’ve not written here for well over a week.  An unidentified viral condition (UVC) is largely to blame.  It led to foggy mind when awake and a preference for sleep above all.  UVC also killed all interest in alcohol and coffee, and most foods that weren’t yellow or orange.  

A bit like being in first trimester pregnancy land.  Which I’m not, but if one has felt it, that’s what UVC was - tenfold.

I am now climbing the stairs without exhaustion, cooking a meal no longer revolts me and staying upright is a feasible postural mode.   Bloody UVC, what were you?