Early yesterday morning before the sun was up, I was brushing my hair in the bathroom off the back room off our house. The back room is where we store craft stuff, the server closet, and our guests, when they come to call. In the mirror I caught a glance of something moving in said guest-storage-futon. I whirled around to see a blanket flip up over a giggling lump in the bed.
“You can’t see me!” a three-year-old voice sing-songed out. “Neener-neener-neener!”
“Where did you learn that from?” The lump just giggled.
The museum was closed this particular day but a lady who happened to be inside saw me peeking in the window and poked her head out the door to see if she could help me. I explained that I had a little boy and I thought that he might be just about the right age now.
“How old is your little boy?”
Picture two intelligent women holding, between the two of them, a skein of yarn, loosened from it twist. Each woman gingerly holds half the skein, the threads looped delicately over the back of fingers held wide apart, with swift and ball-winder at the ready. A half dozen threads join two women.
“This should totally work,” one says.
“You do the honors,” says the other, passing over a pair of scissors.
We don’t do a whole lot of TV in my household. We don’t have cable. We like to keep the inbound visual media our kid is exposed to infrequent, we always pre-approve it, and when possible we watch it with him. I don’t want to sound like an ogre. It’s just that there’s a lot of questionable material out there and he’s impressionable.
It seems like it’s getting darker every morning when I wake up instead of lighter. I imagine it’s just because of the rain clouds that are stapled over California this winter, but it feels like we’ve started revolving the other way, tilting away from the sun and back into winter.
My kid has reached the age of never-ending questions. I feel like the mommy edition of the magic eight ball. Shake me up enough and I spit out answers like yes, no, and ask again later, more or less at random.
Lately, the daily drill has felt like, well, a drill, I guess. Work, cook, clean. Throw in worrying about bills and scrubbing cat barf out of the rug every other day or so, just to keep it interesting.
Kids Luke’s age – which is three years old, as he’s apt to tell everybody within earshot – are fairly famous for discontinuous conversation nodes. You can be discussing lunch, a thirty-second silence ensues, and then he’s telling you about the elephant that wanted red pants and you’re struggling to catch up. Don’t bother trying to connect the dots from A to B, he’s already moved on to a monologue on lego architecture and he never looks back, darling. It distracts from the now.