Overheard

See? He's sitting up now!!

I'm living three inches from my face these days. Not my words, but those of a man I know who said this once and it just made so much sense. Remembering his words helps me laugh at myself when I feel like crying. It's weeks like this past one where I forget that there's a reason for everything and it will all become clear in a few days or months or years. I forget that sleeplessness in young children usually precedes milestones big and sometimes small. At least in this instance the pay off is sooner rather than later.


The baby, who otherwise sleeps pretty well, decided to throw himself a one-man party between 2 and 4 a.m. a few nights this week. Yesterday, he began sitting up without losing his balance. He's quite pleased with himself. And he's at the Swiffer stage; he's scooting across my filthy floors. At least he's making himself useful. In other news, Fiona is getting quite verbal, even asking without whining the other night for a napkin at dinner. She still whine much of the time, or, as I like to call it, mining. She walks around the house whining "Mine" almost constantly. It's so unpleasant.

I assisted in Danny's classroom this week which was a fun break from the work at home. Danny got to be student of the week. He was "interviewed" during circle time. He told the teacher he wanted to be a rock and roll singer. And he even got to bring in his little stuffed kitty, whose name is Professor Gilbert. I'm not even kidding. He came up with this one on his own. His father was goading him into calling it Bo Derek, but it didn't stick, thank goodness.




What I can recall from this week pretty much sums up the kind of week we've had here:


Fiona: Here.
Me: Thank you. 
Fiona: No, MINE.
And this could go on all day. She likes the act but not he concept of giving.

Bad girl, Fiona says after doing something she thinks might be wrong. I think Danny has been calling her this lately. I may be able to fool people into thinking she's talking about boogers. 

Dammit, Fiona says. Awww. Fiona's first curse word. (Shit. I mean, shoot. I mean, sugar.)

What the hell? Danny says quietly as he sets up his cars in a traffic jam. Dear God, It's me. Please don't let my son say anything like this at preschool, 'kay?


What's wrong? Danny asks a little boy who is having a tantrum because he doesn't want to leave the park. When he gets no response, he explains: There's no crying at this park.

I'm going to go run errands, Dan. See you later, I say, kissing his forehead.
Don't do it, he yells.
Why not?
You could get lost.
I've told him not to run off alone because he could get lost. Sigh. Now he won't let me out of his site. In fact, this is the reason he tells me to stay with him at preschool.


No, Danny, you can't stir [the boiling macaroni water]. That's a job for an adult. 
Hey, I'm an adult, he bellows. 
Um, no, honey, you're a kid. 

Two minutes later, he returns to the kitchen ...

I'm a little kid adult, he informs me with hands on hips. He is persistent; I'll give him that.

Have a good weekend.