Right now, my daughter is sleeping. Her blond hair is tousled from erratic tossing and turning, and she’s probably still clinging to her chosen cuddle object of the moment—a wiffle ball bat. Her Little Mermaid jammies are too snug, but she insists on wearing them, for fear that they’ll be handed down to her baby sister once she’s officially outgrown them. Right now, she is blissfully unfettered. Her imagination runs wild, never having been tamed by the four walls of education, until today.
In a few hours, my daughter will enter “the system.” Two years of preschool will be followed by twelve years of “big kid” school (as she calls it), and then….who knows? She’ll be out in the world. Will she attend traditional college? Will …
She can let it all go in dance class and she doesn’t give a rip.
And then…she ripped one.
My sweet-faced, curly-haired three-year-old angel let it all go in dance class, literally. And not while the music was blaring. Not while their little bodies were in motion. She waited until prayer circle. When it was quiet. Eerily quiet. Those last few seconds after the instructor asks, “Any last prayer requests?”
Bwooooop!! “Hee-hee-hee I tooted.” Yep. That was my daughter. Our tiny dancer is a big tooter.
The other girls giggled, too young to know (or care), that public flatulence isn’t socially acceptable. A few of the older girls looked at her with what seemed to be…admiration. “Wow, that chick just totally farted and didn’t even care! OMG she laughed about it!” (Or whatever tween girls talk like nowadays.)
And while I have …
Forget a lump of coal. We need a bar of soap!
I often hear people say they just “make” their kids do things. This perplexes me. I mean, it’s fairly easy with my fifteen month old, but nearly impossible with my three year old. She’s strong when she’s mad. I mean, super strong. And besides, physically forcing my child to do something against their will is a bit traumatic (unless it’s taking necessary medicine, then I just sit on her). Oh yeah, I also threw out my lower back, and hubby was gone, so physical force really wasn’t an option.
So, when my eldest daughter refused to take a bath, I was beyond frustrated. Bath refusal is something new. Here’s how our little exchange went:
…………
Honey, it’s bath time. Please get in with your sister.
No, I …
I can SO relate to this. (from cafemom.com)
Playing…leads to…stealing…leads to…screaming…leads to…pushing…leads to… refereeing…leads to…hugging…leads to…biting…leads to…crying…leads to…scolding…leads to…more crying…leads to…feeding…leads to…flinging…leads to…cleaning…leads to…bathing…leads to…splashing…leads to…whining…leads to…more crying…leads to…Googling “at-home vasectomy.”
If we don’t laugh, we’ll cry, so might as well find the funny!
She didn’t know all of the words. She couldn’t keep up with all of the choreography. Her sundress was stained down the front, and none of the other kids were wearing cowboy boots. But my daughter shined. In my eyes, there was nobody else on stage. It was her first time performing for a public audience, and I was mesmerized.
Afraid she would run to me if I caught her eye, I tried to hide in the large auditorium. But seeing her eyes frantically dart around the room for me, I stood up and waved. She beamed. Above the din of the crowd and kids, I heard her yell, “My mommy! My mommy came!” As much as I try to avoid cliches, I can’t this time. My heart swelled with pride. Filled my chest cavity and …
It seems innocent enough on the outside…
I have to admit I’ve been a little, well, anxious lately. Try as I may to control it on my own, it’s been tough. After all, exposing your heart and soul to the elements can be a little stressful. Throw a three-year-old and one-year-old on top of that, and the other day-to-day tasks that still have to get done (laundry, cooking, cleaning, shopping, laundry, laundry, and more laundry) and it’s a little heavy on my chest.So, it was a relief last night to have a good, hearty laugh. No anxiety medication comes close to what laughter (and a good massage) can cure. Now, it probably wouldn’t have been funny if the age of my sense of humor matched my biological age. You see, I laugh at things an …