Small Things 12-1-13
1. Dinner seems to be the time Henry chooses to talk about the scary things. Blindsided me tonight with insta-tears while asking more questions on death out of the blue. Sounds like he came to grips with the ‘mommy will die someday, but not anytime soon,’ and he seemed to be ok with the idea that daddy was in that category of someday-but-not-soon, too. But then he wanted to verify, “But little boys never ever die, right, mommy?”
Oh, too-perceptive child, please let go of this for a few more years!
I did my best, promising him that while everyone eventually dies, almost all little boys don’t die for a long long long long long long long long long time, and reminded him that both his granddaddies are still alive, and can he imagine how far away it will be when he’s older than his grandparents? (He couldn’t.) And then I made crazy cross-eyed faces at him and pretended to steal all of his brussels sprouts.
Parenting. Is. Hard.
2. But then sometimes, you get it right. My 3-year-old is officially able to pull up his own damned undies and pants after peeing. Wahoooooooo!!!!!! We were almost there before The Elbow, but I was beginning to despair of ever getting back to a place where I wasn’t the One in Charge of pants-down/pants-up. Life is good.
3. Also? The serious praise he’s gotten for taking this step toward big-boyhood is renewing his interest in pooping-on-a-potty. Life might be about to get VERY good.
4. Hen burned himself on the woodstove today–as good a burn as I could hope for(?) As in, he’s KNOWN for a long time that stoves are hot, but I’m not sure he’s ever really understood just why mom & dad are so crazy about him + stove. But he burned his fingertip this morning, enough to blister, but not enough to slow him down from pain. And I’m sort of pleased. Better this than a big burn, obviously, and I’m hoping it was enough of a lesson to make him respect The Stove a bit more. Sigh.
5. Whiskey + store-bought eggnog. I’m not a hard liquor person. Wine is my vice-of-choice, and I rarely indulge in more than a glass. But every year when the grocery store starts selling that sicky-sweet eggnog stuff, I start dreaming of Real Eggnog. Too lazy to make the real thing, I simply add enough whiskey to down a horse to my glass of sicky-sweet and sip it through the night in a haze of sugar and alcohol. I figure I have two more nights of indulgence left in my quart-o-sweet. Mmmmmm. Eggnog.