As I type, I am experiencing one of those wonderfully joyful parts of motherhood: my two darlings are playing together happily in the sandbox, despite the fact that she is playing “Barbie on Treasure Island” and he is playing “Wheeled Things Getting Coal for the Fire.” They are being so sweet. Completely unlike themselves, really.
Yesterday, The Boy (recently turned 3-years old) successfully used the potty for the first pee of the morning. Yeehah! Then he hid behind Daddy’s chair, pooped in his pull-up, and REMOVED his pants and pull-up. When he appeared, bare-bottomed (and a bit messy), in front of me, I asked, “WHERE IS THE POOP????” His response? “I dunno.” Ack!
Day before yesterday, The Girl (recently turned 5-years old) said, “Mommy, you have a big belly. You must have eaten too much.” Well, yeah, for the past thirty years, or so. When I was teaching kindergarten, one of the preschoolers hugged me and said, “Why are you so fat?” Being a year and a half pregnant at the time, I thought it was cute, if a bit annoying. I am no longer pregnant. It is no longer cute.
Overhearing one’s children narrate their play is definitely more enjoyable than bodily functions or childish honesty. Recently they’ve been making Barbie and Pocahontas fly to Mexico. When the dolls get to their destination, they are said to be “on Mexico,” like it is a hill, or a rock, or something. In my house, The Girl does the flying, and The Boy holds the map. She takes charge of their play most of the time, but he certainly has his own opinions. The other day, Barbie (her usual alter-ego) said, “Everybody likes to kiss.” Pocahontas (his doll, by default) replied, “I don’t.” Barbie: “But kissing is so wonderful!” Pocahontas: “Kissing is … is…disappointing.” Ok, so how does my 5-year old know so much about kissing? And, excuse me, disappointing??? The teen years are going to be really interesting.