It’s Not All Mary Poppins

Snippets of a morning out

On an asphalt-melting summer day, there are few better places to spend a morning than our park, our lovely sprawling lawn-rich shade-drenched park. For much of the way there, we follow a dirt footpath by the river. We check out the ducks and the swans as we stroll. Lately, there have been teentsy-eentsy-weentsy little frogs (or perhaps they’re toads) no bigger than your baby fingernail. Odd how, if something – pretty near anything – is small enough, it’s cute. I hunker down with the toddling tots. Toads. Definitely toads. We indulge in some cries of delight. “Awwww…”

And other sorts of cries from more-observant George.

“Eeew! Nigel stepped on a baby toad! Mary, Nigel’s got a toad under his sandal! Nigel, Nigel, lift your foot, quick, there’s a baby toad under there.” The brothers peer at the underside of Nigel’s sandal. “Oh, no. Mary, the toad’s all squashed.”

“EEEEWWWwwww!” Anna, Timmy, and Emily join the chorus of disgust. From their perch in the stroller, they can see neither toads nor the bottom of Nigel’s sandal. They have no idea what they’re disgusted about, but they do love being disgusted. “EEEEWWWWwah-hahahahahah…!”

Nigel proceeds with more caution. So much more that the 20-minute walk to the park becomes a 40 minute walk. But it’s too hot to go quickly, anyway. A lolling meandre suits me just fine. We meandre to the park. Subsequent teeny toads escape our passage unsquashed.

We arrive, the kids scatter. Anna, Timmy and Nigel to the bouncy toys, Emily to the playhouse to drive bulldozers across the little table therein, Ki-woon and George to the slides.

“OW! Mary, Mary the slides are HOT!”

“Try the one in the shade, then.”

“I like this one because it has the bump in it. Can’t you cool this one down?”

“Just how might I do that, bud?”

“My mommy lies down on it for a few minutes.” (She DOES? Doesn’t that HURT? Is she NUTS?)

“She DOES? Doesn’t that HURT? Well, I’m not going to do that, George. Go down the one in the shade.” (Note the Highly Professional self-censorship.)

“Emma!” Nigel calls from the bouncy airplane. “Emma, I need help getting down!” Belly on the seat, his feet dangle a couple of inches off the ground.

“You’re doing fine, Nigel. You can do it.”

“But I need help to get off!”

Plonk. His feet hit the sand. He eyes her reproachfully. “Emma, I needed your HELP.”

“Why?”

“To get down.”

“But you ARE down, Nigel. You did it all on your own.”

He looks down at his feet, considers for a moment. This is not the response he was looking for, but he can’t find the loophole in the argument. One more reproachful glare and he trots off. And gets onto the next bouncy toy.

We slide and bounce and dig and climb for an hour. Well, the tots do. Emma and I stand and cheer and chat and clap. We all have snack.

“Timmy, that’s Emily’s bowl. Yours is the yellow one. No, Nigel, you may not eat out of your sandal. That’s why we have our bowls. Good job, Ki-woon! Look at you, helping Nigel put his cheese back in his bowl. Nigel! Nigel, what are you doing? Well, if there are crumbs in your sandal, let me wipe it with a cloth. You don’t use your tongue. Eew. [All together now: EEEEWWW! They do love that sound…] Emily, hon? Emily, we have cheese and crackers and kiwi for snack. You don’t need to eat the clover. Yes, George, I know it won’t hurt her, but I’d rather she ate what I brought.”

“Are they all yours?” A woman with a child of about three, stands and smiles at our little group who gaze up at her, chewing. I remove a clover leaf from Emily’s cheek and smile back at her.

“No, no. They’re all friends. It’s a daycare.” She waves at the tots and wanders off.

Emma and I play our familiar game: Crowd that Uterus.

“Well, George is five,” I start. “Timmy and Emily could be 18-month-old twins….”

“And Nigel and Ki-woon could be two-and-a-half-year-old twins,” Emma slots the next obvious age-pair into the equation.

“Nigel and Ki-woon?” (Nigel is a pale-skinned, curly-topped blond with big blue eyes. Ki-woon has the straight black hair, creamy-tea skin and almond eyes of his Korean heritage.)

She giggles. “Oh yeah. Then, ummm…” She pauses, tries a couple of other permutations, but nothing can really get around the lone oriental in the pile of caucasians. “No, that woman is just stupid.”

“Well, we could have adopted him.”

“When we have five others? She’s crazy.”

“She is or I am.”

“Well, THAT makes more sense.” She scampers away giggling, hands over her butt. She knows me well. My swat swishes on air.

The teeny toads have vacated the path, so our return trip is quicker and squoosh-free.

August 16, 2007 Posted by | eeewww, outings | 12 Comments

Hump Day

(Am I the only one who finds that term kinda borderline? First time I heard it, I had mental flashes that had nothing to do with Wednesday’s place in the week…)

Wednesday? Why is it only WEDNESDAY? I woke up this morning convinced that it was Thursday. Thursday! One more day! And then it’s the weekend – and, more importantly, the BEGINNING OF MY HOLIDAY.

But it’s not Thursday.

It’s Wednesday.

Dammit.

And I have a cold. For three days I thought it was hayfever producing the endless stream from my nose. I had a harder time explaining the cough. And this morning? I woke with what can only be a sinus headache. My eye teeth ache. Ugh.

“I’ll take them to the library,” I said to myself. “That’s easy, calm, the entertainment is built in. No creative effort on my part. Just what I’m up to today: calm and undemanding.”

Yeah, I know. I want calm and undemanding when surrounded by two-year-olds. All the gunk in my head must be backing up into my brain.

George and Nigel arrive first. They have a CD with them. Dad says, “Thought you might like a break from that pink disk. This one’s a favourite at home.”

It’s a home-burned disk, labelled “Toddler Nigel. Mi yoil.” ‘Mi yoil’?

“Midnight Oil.”

?? The explanation tells me nothing. Clearly my cultural awareness has its holes. So we put it in the player, and… Lead singer has all the auditory grace of that guy from The Clash (NOT Mr. Mellifluous); and the beat – a driving, relentless bambambambambambambam – kinda reminds me of Rock Lobster. So, a combination of The Clash and the B-52’s. JUST what I’m craving to start this “calm and undemanding” day.

The kids, of course, love it.

After the first adrenalie-revving bar, they are wild. Bouncing off the walls. Off each other. Shrieking. Screaming. Racing in circles. Bopping in the groove. A mini mosh-pit in my living room.

Woo-bloody-hoo.

Mi yoil lasts about 12 bars. “Okay, guys! We’re going to the library!!” Libraries are peaceful places. Let’s burn off some of that energy making them walk the kilometre there, then sedate them with some books.

That’s the Plan.

We arrive. We are the first to arrive. The children’s section is calm and undemanding. Lots of pretty books in neat rows. Creative displays of books organized around various themes. A bright and welcoming rug for snuggling and reading. Perfect.

We commence to snuggle-and-reading. Aaaahhhh…

The door swings open. A father and his 4-year-old daughter come in. A mother and two little boys arrive. It’s a little less calm now, but reasonable. But it doesn’t stop. Seems I’m unreasonable to want reasonable… The door opens and closes a dozen more times in ten minutes, and the place is filled to the rafters with kindergarten-aged kids. No so calm anymore. At all.

Miss Sandy, the librarian, stands in the hub-bub. Claps her hands. “All right, everyone! Story-time is starting!” (Story-time? I thought that was on Tuesday. Oh, it is? And they’ve added a second, because it was so popular? Oh, how… nice.) And she commences to sing as the children stampede from every corner of the room to the story nook. One of the goldfish in the aquarium floats to the surface, victim of the depth-charge shock of all those pounding feet. Twenty-six four- and five-year-olds jockey for position, and commence to shriek along with her. Their enthusiasm is touching. And gratifying for Miss Sandy, I’m sure. It’s also very, very LOUD. Mary gathers her books and hustles her charges past the mayhem.

Several Earnest Mommy types give the deadbeat caregiver a scornful look. Clearly I don’t care like they do. Clearly I don’t love my little ones enough to want to take Every Opportunity to Enrich their little lives.

I don’t flip the Earnest Mommies the bird. I am a Professional. I smile kindly upon their Earnestnesses, and quietly meditate on the crash landing that awaits them. Sooner or later. Mwah-ha.

The air outside is cool, the breeze refreshing. We have ten pounds of books to peruse at our leisure.

And there are those lovely rocks in the lawn outside the library.

The children clamber, and Mary sits on the grass, perusing some of the books we chose. It’s calm, it’s undemanding. It’s soothing, even.

And then the mommy-baby exercise group converges, all the Bugaboos and the MacLarens and the lean and wannabe lean mommies, ready to do their warm-up and stretch before their run along the canal.

I don’t swear as we leave. I don’t even snarl.

I am doing more visualization, though. A three-hour naptime (please, please, please), a soothing cup of peppermint tea, and a book. Not “Are You My Mother?” or “Dog Breath” or “Trucks” or “The Bellybutton Book”, but a grownup book. Just.For.Me.

Either that, or a nap just for me…

Keep your fingers crossed.

August 15, 2007 Posted by | books, George, music, Nigel, outings, quirks and quirkiness | 9 Comments

Musing Together

Learning. I love learning. I love new information, new ideas, finding out stuff I didn’t know before.

But is accumulating new facts and abilities the full definition of “learn”?

Sheri’s worked out a definition that I really love. Take a gander, see what you think of her idea, then ponder a bit. How would YOU define learning, for yourself, and for your children?

August 14, 2007 Posted by | parenting, random and odd | 2 Comments

Holiday Madness

I will be taking holidays the last two weeks of the month. Not that I’m going anywhere, because that would require spare money, but I do have the time off.

I was explaining my ‘plans’ to a neighbour, who said, “Oh, I never worry about whether I can afford it. I just do it.” Which (OF COURSE) only means that she CAN SO afford it. Means she has no idea what it is to really not be able to afford something. She wouldn’t be having to go without a little something – like, say, groceries for two weeks – to have her little getaway.

I never worry, I just do it.” Bah. Get awaaay from me.

I didn’t say any of this, of course. Because Mary is almost always polite. (And this neighbour? She’s the one renowned on the street for the brawl she had a couple of years ago with another woman. Started with verbal invective, moved on to full physical melee. Their husbands had to pull them apart. No kidding. On my street! So I am nice to her. I speak softly, I make no sudden movements. ‘There, there. Niiice nasty neighbour. Nice girl.’)

So, I’m taking time off at the end of the month. I will be doing a few special things, though. Because it is, after all, my holiday time and I do deserve a change of pace. Which is why I plan to repaint the living room, dining room, and front hall. And declutter one end of the basement so as to begin the expansion of my son’s shoebox of a bedroom.

I can afford to expand the bedroom but not a holiday? Such self-sacrifice!! you say. (Or perhaps you are shaking your tsk-ing finger at me.) Fear not. The sacrifice is his, not mine. He’s building it, with direction from his grandfather. Time the boy learned to wield a hammer and frame a wall. A good life skill.

A life skill which will be put to EXCELLENT use when he finishes the rest of the basement. But he doesn’t know about that yet. All he knows it that it will cost him a lot less (yes, him; you didn’t think I was paying for this, did you?) if he builds his room, rather than paying someone else. And he is kind of looking forward to doing it. It’s sorta cool to be able to do this stuff for yourself, ya know?

I’m thinking I might loiter for some framing-and-drywall lessons myself. I hate not knowing stuff. Which is not to say that I’ll do it – I will be on holiday, remember?

So. Painting and decuttering and organizing and maybe even some carpentry lessons. Do I know how to holiday, or what??

Which is why I decided to have a holiday Sangria Send-off my last day of work.

NOoooo, not during working hours. At the end of the day, the parents will come a little early and leave a little late, and I will have several large pitchers of sangria for us all. Including one non-alcoholic one for the gestating mama in the crowd.

I offered childcare. Emma can take the tots to the park, I said.

They turned me down. “Oh, no!! We want to see them play together! We want to know what goes on! We want to see the dynamic! It’ll be so cute!”

I stifle a groan and release a smile. ‘Course you do. What parent doesn’t want to see such cuteness? Except… What they’ll see in the evening with mommy and daddy present will be very little like what happens during the day with just Mary. The only way to see that would be to put a hidden camera in the room. (Hidden, because as soon as the little hambones knew there was a camera in range, you’d see nothing but grinning children, standing (mostly) still, or jockeying for front-and-centre position.)

Because when the parents are there, they behave as they would for the parents. The whole dynamic changes, and (hear me sigh) … they tend to behave worse. There’s more whining, there’s more squabbling, there’s more whining, there’s more aggression, there’s more whining, there’s more clingy-ness, there’s more whining. Oh, and there’s more whining.

It’s not all bad, because these are sweet children. There’s more of all that stuff, not ONLY all that stuff. But it’s not what I’m used to seeing, and an hour or two of exasperation is not how I really wanted to end my week.

Thank god for the sangria. Which I will not slip to any of the children. No, really. I won’t.

August 13, 2007 Posted by | daycare, holidays, my kids, parents, the dark side | 12 Comments

My Darkest Hour

My eldest was colicky. From about 4 p.m. through 1 a.m., the girl screamed. And screamed and screamed and screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed some more.

She was inconsolable. Nothing – nothing! – soothed her. Not nursing, not rocking, not swinging, not shushing, not rides in the car or the stroller, or warm baths. I didn’t know about swaddling back then. (I thought I did. I tried it, but I know now I was inept, so I don’t know if proper swaddling would have helped or not.)

Hour after weary hour went by, most of them spent with me pacing the length of our long, narrow apartment, from living room through dining room, pantry, kitchen and back. And forth. And back.

Yes, the baby had a father. No, he did not pace with her. He told me to put her in her cradle – but I couldn’t. (Read, wouldn’t. I was offended he would even suggest such a thing. Hindsight gives him more credit than I did at the time: my efforts were traumatizing myself and not helping her a jot.)

My refusal to set her down may or may not have been a mistake, but it’s not what I’m writing about here. I’m writing about that one night, when, driven to the very limits of my capacity and tolerance, when she had finally calmed, I had laid her down, oh, so very, very carefully, pulled my hands away slowly, slowly, slooooowly, and cautiously, one tentative tip-toe after another, my heart in my throat lest I hit a creaky floorboard, I moved out of the room. (She was sleeping in our bed, but for some reason I wasn’t going to sleep just then.) I was almost at the door, almost free, almost ready to stand up and take a firm step into the kitchen, let the tension drop from my weary shoulders and take a deep breath, when…

…with a hiccup and a cough, the wailing started again.

Nothing can match that despair, can it? Chilled and weak with despair, tears welled into my eyes. I just.couldn’t.do this any more. And then something – rage? desperation? hysteria? – something surged through me, a wave of heat and energy.

I spun on my heel, shot into the room, and, my voice hoarse and shrill with desperation, I clenched my fists and pounded the mattress, each fist a foot away from either side of her, and I shrieked. Louder than she was shrieking. Than she had been shrieking, for hours.

“Just! Go! To! SLEEP!! Please, please, baby, just go to SLEEEEP!!!”

When I saw her tiny body bounce a couple of inches up off the mattress, I froze for a split second. Then fled.

Sobs, mine this time, wrenched through me. I was stunned, horrified. I had crossed an uncrossable line in my mind. No one else in the history of parenting had ever behaved so badly towards their baby.

I don’t recall what happened next. I don’t know if I returned to my attempts to soothe her, I don’t know if I had a long shower to calm down and drown out her cries (cries which were no different in tenor, I might add, from the previous six hours’ worth; again, it seemed the one being truly traumatized was me, not her), I don’t know if I went for a walk. I simply don’t remember.

I only remember the remorse, the utter despair, the gut-wrenching self-loathing. I had never before in my life hated myself as I did that evening.

Twenty-one years lends perspective. I was 24 years old, uncertain of myself, unsupported (in any emotional way) by my husband. I was living in a strange city in a different country, far from family and friends. I hadn’t had more than two hours’ consecutive sleep in weeks. Every evening was an ordeal of endless screaming. I was sleep-deprived, beyond exhausted, beyond hope, beyond desperate… and yet, despite all that: I didn’t hurt that baby. I didn’t even think of hurting her.

Am I proud of that moment? No, I am not. I am also not ashamed of it. It taught me that in the depths of my own misery, I could not – cannot – harm my child. It taught me that I can be driven to passionate misery by my child and still love that child with a fierce, unyielding, uncompromising passion.

When you are expecting that first baby, when you are parenting that tiny newborn, I think people are afraid to tell you you might ever feel that desperate, that out of control, that hopeless. No one wants to let on you might act in a way that your calm, rational, well-rested self would find shocking. Why? Because they don’t want to normalize it? Because they fear that, if it’s normalized, it will lead to ever more violent outbursts against innocent babies? Because they don’t want to frighten you with something you might never experience? Because admitting they’ve felt that way themselves will open them to be judged and found lacking by the naive non-parent, a person who has no idea yet that they, too, could ever feel that way?

These are good reasons, I think, and valid concerns. And yet…

We do need to know. NOT so as to give us permission to behave badly, but so as to give us time to develop strategies, in advance of the maelstrom of emotions, the blurring, blinding fatigue, the hormonal lunacy that follow childbirth. To let us know that it is possible to resent, to be enraged with, to regret, to – just for a moment – hate the child that so burdens us — even as we know we’d die for that child, even as we know that we love it as we’ve loved nothing in our lives.

We need to know you can feel all that: love, hate, regret, joy, despair, rage, transcendence, sorrow, pride, loneliness, fulfillment, and much more — and be a good mother.

In fact, if motherhood doesn’t teach you the heights and depths of human emotion? I don’t think anything can.

Perhaps it’s even true to say that without these heights – and depths – motherhood would be less complete.

August 10, 2007 Posted by | aggression, controversy, parenting, the dark side | 34 Comments

Speechless

Nigel, two-and-a-half, sits on my floor, playing with one of Emma’s shoes. (Because there are no toys around here, oh no.)

He looks up at me, his blue eyes wide in the luminous ivory of his face, his face which is ringed with blond curls.

“Mary? Mary, eventually we will go to the park?”

Stephen and I exchange glances. Stephen looks down at Nigel, says with great gravity.

“Eventually, Nigel. Eventually, but not inevitably.”

“O-tay!”

Nigel returns to the shoe.

August 9, 2007 Posted by | Nigel, the things they say! | 6 Comments

Ooooo…shiny…

rockingirlbloggers.jpg

Kat at Menage a Kat has nominated me a Rockin’ Girl Blogger, which pleases me no end because I love the shiny pink button. And even nicer than a shiny pink button are the shiny pink things she says about this blog in her post. Thanks, Kat.

Now I get to share the fun by picking out five female bloggers who I really appreciate. THIS will be much harder…

Average Mom. AM doesn’t post regularly, but her posts are always worth the read. I love her matter-of-fact presentation. She doesn’t sugar-coat, but she’s no cynic. So, to you up there in the Yukon, your very own pink button!

Mir. I know, everybody loves Mir, but I had to put her here anyway. Nor do I expect her to actually post this button, because it so does not go with the colour scheme of her hugely professional template. (No, really! It’s gorgeous, and pink would just be… eeeww…) I’ve been reading her for over a year, and she never fails to make me laugh, and sometimes has me heaving a “that’s-so-touching” girly sigh. And she got married this summer, just like me!

Wendz. Wendy is a fascinating combination of romanticism and edginess, sentiment and card shark. She’s smart, she’s funny, and she loves her two boys to distraction – even if it’s not always a sure bet they’ll live past their formative years.

I’d love to link to Laura, (ha! I just did!) but, unlike me, she has a life that precludes much blogging these days. But if you haven’t read her, go check out the archives. And who know? Now that she’s GRADUATED, maybe she’ll be back!

I can’t link you to Jen’s home blog, which is private, but I can link you to her latest venture – Work It, Mom! Jen doesn’t do it on her own, but I’m betting that energy of hers makes her a powerhouse to have on board. There’s a whole host of Rockin’ Girl Bloggers over there – go check it out, wander around, explore!

There. Five women whose blogs make me laugh, make me sigh, make me think – every day. Congratulations, you Rockin’ women! Post the button (if you like), and share your five favourite Rockin’ Girl blogs with us.

August 8, 2007 Posted by | memes and quizzes | 5 Comments

I’m not really THAT patient…

Oh, my. I’ve given you all a false impression. I mean, yes, I did really do this – mostly. I might have exaggerated just a teeny bit when I posted, just for effect, you know.

But do I usually do that?

Um, no.

In the face of constant, unrelenting questions and comments, I have a few strategies. First, of course, I answer fully and respectfully. A kid asks a question, a kid deserves an answer. How else do they learn? (Well, besides experience, o’course: sticking beans up their nose and bobby pins in sockets, just to see what will happen…)

A question deserves an answer. Unless…

…you’ve answered the exact same question within the previous 90 seconds. (They might get one repeat if I deem they truly didn’t grasp it the first time.)

…you’re quite sure the question is designed only to keep your attention, (particularly when your attention needs to be on this boiling water you’re straining off the vegetables, or this diaper you’re changing, or the ants you’ve discovered swarming the weeks-old apple core in the back of the closet.)

…you’re on the phone.

…this is the second child asking the identical question, because they weren’t listening the first time, or because they saw that “hey! that question gets attention!” I don’t mind giving them attention, but, please, a little originality would be appreciated.

…you’re kissing your sweetie.

…you’re bored. (What? You don’t get bored? You’re a better woman than I am. Or perhaps you just need less mental stimulation…)

You may have other criteria for ignoring questions. These are mine. You’re welcome to share yours!

So. We assume the questions have reached the nails-down-a-chalkboard level of intolerability. This may be ten minutes of repetition, if you’re a saint, or it may be two repeats (45 seconds) if you’re PMSing. I generally max out at about four. Four repeats, not four minutes. If I’m listenig. Which I’m not always.

So, what can you do?

1. Tune them out. Having done this for a couple of decades (including my own kids), I am a past master at tuning it out. If you can do this, it works pretty well. Of course, you have to be able to bear with two or three or four minutes of “Mommy?”… “Mmmooommmy?”
Mommy?“”…
“MOMMY!”…
“MMMOOOOOOOMMMMYYY?!?”
“MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY?!?!?!?!!!”

If you can tune that out, they will very often wander off in disgust. Really. Many parents only discover this with the birth of baby number two. Caught between the wails of a newborn and the bellowing of a toddler, and choosing the likely more urgent need of the newborn, they discover, before they are finished with the newborn, that the toddler has… found something else to do!!*

Assuming ‘something else’ isn’t potentially lethal, the problem is solved!

2. Switch roles, version 1. “YOU know. I told you.” Then ask their question right back at them, and generally, they’ll tell you the answer. HA.

3. Switch roles, version 1.1. Ask them a question over and over and over again. So it goes like this:
“Mommy, what is that noise?”
“Joey, why are elephants gray?”
“Mommy, what is that noise?”
“Joey, why are elephants gray?”

At which point Joey will likely decide that you have lost it and wander off to mine the back of the closet with apple cores. And yeah, it’s playing with their heads a little, and as a joke it has a limited lifespan, but for a few repeats, it’s kind of entertaining… Hey. When you’re bored enough…

4. Be honest. “Mary needs quiet. No more questions. Go play with your [fascinating toy in another soundproofed room].”

5. Be honest, with feeling. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Off you go and play.” Because it’s okay to be less than saintly. Really. (You ever stopped to consider what tended to happen to saints? Eeeww…)

And then go relax in a quiet room with a soothing beverage.

*Failing a newborn, I would think that headphones would be very useful. Not that I’ve ever used them.

August 6, 2007 Posted by | behavioural stuff, parenting, the things they say! | 6 Comments

A Man After my own Heart

Colin Bevin talks about how he entertains his two-year-old without television. (People put their two-year-old in front of the television? Where do they find the time?)

Isn’t it a lovely post?

August 2, 2007 Posted by | controversy, parenting, socializing | 8 Comments

How can she BLOG and work at the same time?

Well, because…

“What’s that big noise?” Nigel’s head swivels as the roar of a chainsaw cuts through the air.
“See that tree? The branches are too close to the wires, so the men are cutting down the tree.”
“What’s that big noise?”
“See that tree? Those men are cutting it down.”
“What’s that big noise?”
“The men are cutting down the tree.”
“What’s that big noise?”
“The men are cutting down the tree.”
“What’s that big noise?”
“The men are cutting down the tree.”
“What’s that big noise?”
“The men are cutting down the tree.”
“What’s that big noise?”
“The men are cutting down the tree.”
“What’s that big noise?”

…sometimes?…

“Look! I jump! I jump. On couch!”
“So I see, Timmy. Good jumping.”
“Look! I jump!”
“Jump, jump, jump! You sure know how to jump!”
“Look! I jump!”
“Wow!”
“Look! I jump!!”
“Wow!”
“Look! I jump!!”
“Wow!”
“Look! I jump!”

…This job really…

“What’s wrong?” Anna’s husky voice is a mix of concern and curiosity as she peers at Ki-woon, cradled in my lap.
“He bumped his head.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He just knocked his head on the table. Just a little bump.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He has a little bo-bo on his head.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He has a little bo-bo on his head.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He has a little bo-bo on his head.”
“What’s wrong?”

doesn’t take a whole lot of thought.

August 1, 2007 Posted by | Anna, daycare, Developmental stuff, Nigel, the things they say!, Timmy | 10 Comments