The snow has taken its toll on all of us here. We’re ready for Spring. We’re ready for full school weeks. We’re ready for not freezing our butts off and being stuck in the house together and sniffly noses and all that crap that comes along with it. According to the daughter, “We need Spring, because my Winter coat is tired.”
Mine, too. Mine, too.
Thankfully they are getting to the age where they are starting to be capable of playing nicely together. Sometimes for hours on end I have the peace of not being hollared/screamed for every two seconds. It’s quite liberating. Then you hear things like this:
The daughter: Help! Save me! I’m a Princess that needs to be rescued!
The son: -Silence-
The daughter: Help! Help! If someone could please rescue me when they have time. . .
The son: -Continued silence-
The daughter: Please, if you’d like to rescue me, I’m back here. Help! Help!
The son: -Silence that makes me think I need to get out of bed and make sure he’s still in the general vicinity and not doing something extremely dangerous-
Me: Dude! Go save your sister!
The son: I’ll save you ’cause you asked, but you could do it yourself. Just try.
And. . .my son understands feminism better than the daughter and I combined. Figures. Eventually, the daughter started saving herself. It wasn’t a good day for rescuers. The son has been feeling a little rough. He sounds like he’s doing his best I’m-a-grown-man-with-a-gravelly-voice impression, except it’s all high-pitched since he’s five. His cheeks have bright red flags from the constant swipe of a forearm under the nose.
His Venom costume probably needs to be handled with a hazmat suit at this point.
He’s learning how to write, too. This would be great if he’d write nice things. However, while the husband and I were away on our little vacation, the daughter brought a note to my mom that he’d written. In the jumble of letters it was sorta noticeable that the words ‘Dallas’ and ‘hate’ were there. Not spelled well, but you got the idea. Of course, my daughter had figured it out easily. . .
He’d been repeating the words, “I hate Dallas” while he wrote it. With her in the room. And then he gave it to her. Like a little I-don’t-like-you gift.
Kids are cruel sometimes.
I can’t get the daughter into reading at all, and then her brother’s like, “Hey sis, read this.” Meanie. My mother dealt with the issue. I dealt with it when we got home. They made up pretty quickly and now I just keep getting notes that involve the word “but” on them. I really thought about telling him that there are two T’s in that word, but I’m not sure I want him scrawling “butt” on everything.
We’re also back to doing search and seizure every morning before school. The son has a thing for the Victoria Secret models right now. Well, honestly, he’s got a thing for belly dancers. I let him watch a Shakira video and so technically, it’s all my fault.
His little eyes followed every move of those hips and he was hooked. I mean, so was the husband and my uncle. Even I was a little mesmerized and spent entirely too long trying to figure out how to get my body to do that.
So when Victoria’s Secret sent a catalog to the house, the son obviously thought it was an entire book of belly dancers and decided to keep it on his book shelf.
They do sorta look like belly dancers.
I don’t care that he confiscated my catalog. I care that he’s trying to take it to school to show all his buddies. I’d rather not be called in for that parent teacher conference. No thank you.
The fascination with belly dancers has caused numerous moments of uncontrollable laughter over here. It’s led to conversations like this:
The son: Do you have a belly dancer costume? (in other words, lingerie like in the catalog)
Me: It’s underwear, bud. I have underwear.
The son: Does it look like this?
Me: Doesn’t matter. It’s my underwear and you don’t need to see it.
The son: How come we can’t touch your boo-boos? (Their word for boobs. Not sure where it came from, but that’s what they call them)
Me: Because they are mine and you don’t need to touch them. It’s my body.
The son: Okay. -Tries to lay back against me while sitting on the couch. Keeps bouncing around.-
Me: What are you doing?
The son: I can’t lay back without touching your boo-boos.
Me: It’s fine. Just lay back!
The son: -Lays back and starts giggling-
The son: I’m touching your boo-boos.
Sweet lord. Ladies. . .I’d like to apologize in advance for my son. I promise. I’ll at least try to get him to the place where he calls them breasts. He may still be burping and farting loud enough to shake the shingles, but he’ll know the right name for anatomy. It’s the best I can offer at this point.