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Category: Parenthood

She Should See What We Do with Used Tissues

Saturday morning after SK’s soccer class, the four of us trooped into the grocery store, supposedly to pick up a loaf of bread, but really because momma wanted a pumpkin doughnut. I took Saoirse to the bathroom when we got there (“Mom?  I don’t HAFTA go pee!”), way in the back of their market cafe eating area.  The women’s bathroom (the one, I so dislike pointing out to SK, we identify because the lady symbol is wearing a skirt) had a grand ol’ mommy-and-me stall inside (because this is Wegman’s, after all), complete with sink. So Saoirse went to the bathroom (even though “I don’t WANNA go on the toy-let!” she said), and we happily washed her hands afterward, chit-chattering the whole time, as conversations with three-year-olds are wont to go.  We discussed the potty, and the sanitary napkin waste can (because that’s always a fun explanation), and the soap dispenser (“Smell my hands, Mom.  They’re clean now!”) and, of course the paper towel dispenser. Freshly washed and ready to stuff some fried…

Hopefully by the Time She’s 2

These are the feet of a 15-month-old who doesn’t want to walk. Oh, she could walk if she wanted to do so.  She’ll stand in the middle of a room for a full minute, by herself, giggling at whomever is cheering her on.  And she’ll tease us by taking half a step before crouching back down on all fours and tearing off after a ball, or toy car, or large dog who doesn’t deserve the overjoyed pounding he’s about to get in the face.  But she just. won’t. walk. There’s other stuff she can do perfectly well.  She can move up and down the stairs of our house more quickly than I can after, say, a hard work-out or anytime, actually, before my first cup of coffee.  She’ll repeat words we say, then immediately incorporate them into her vocabulary (“Wow!” “Hungry!” “Tintinnabulation!”).  If she hears her big sister ask if we have any candy, and if so may she have some, she’ll promptly drop whatever she’s doing and start reaching for…

This One’s for You, Amy

There’s a farm market on the other side of our town that, like many small, family-owned farms, opens a play area for children every fall.  It has a “fun fort” in a would-be greenhouse.  It has burlap-sack rides, and corn boxes and animals to feed.  There are tire swings, and hay forts and bean bag games and mazes.  For children, this is a kiddie paradise to fall in, crawl around on, run and leap and slide.  Parents, you know what it means for us…

It means the purchase of quart loads of stain remover.  And an entire three-month season that revolves around picking hay out of shorts, out of socks, out of hair.  I didn’t buy the season pass today, telling myself I didn’t want to fork over that much cash for two children, that we wouldn’t be coming back here often enough to make it worth it.

Yeah, right.  Who am I kidding?