I can’t settle down long enough to write anything, because we are in an unseasonable heat wave right now, and I just want to be outside wiggling my toes in the brown grass and watching my crocuses grow.
But this poor space has been rather neglected lately, and it’s so easy to get out of the habit of writing… then I find myself talking to Pixie like she’s an adult who can understand me, which she clearly isn’t. The only way to write anything is one word at a time, and even if those words are clumsy and distracted because it. is. so. warm. outside, the important thing is to start.
1. Pixie is now a full time client; my only one, but it’s better than none. Her mom picked up a day of work per week at a local coffee shop; combined with her four days a week at school she’s a busy lady. I’m slowly getting Miss Pixie on a more reasonable schedule, and also figuring out her little moods. When she’s thwarted in any way, her bottom lip sticks out to a truly alarming degree, her head drops, and she makes this pitiful little snuffling sound. This clearly gets her what she wants at home. It doesn’t work so much here, because I figured out very quickly that she is easily distracted (especially by crayons, she LOVES to draw) and as soon as something else is placed in front of her her mood turns on a dime. It’s very hard not to laugh outright when she’s really pouring it on.
2. Harry has moved on to Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson & the Olympians series. His uncle came by last week with Christmas presents (yes, he’s that delinquent, it’s a long story) – but gift cards to Chapters were hugely appreciated by both older boys, and Harry promptly chose a boxed set of the first five books. He read through them at an alarming rate of speed and is now thoroughly obsessed with all things Greek. He’s got an old Roman centurion helmet in the costume box; he plops it on his head, grabs a toy sword, and charges around the front yard fighting all manner of beasts and mythical monsters. He drills us mercilessly with questions about ancient Greece. I haven’t seen him play Harry Potter in a week, and the bellows of “expelliarmus!” from all over the house have suddenly stopped. Thank goodness the dark brown hair dye we tried on him didn’t take; he seems to have completely moved on from wanting to actually be Harry Potter, and waiting for “deep chestnut” to grow out would have driven us all crazy.
3. Ron is tripping out because his “number four birthday” is only a couple of weeks away. He wants a training-wheels bike, he tells us. Which is good because that’s what we got, all neatly assembled and hidden away. It’s got Spiderman on it. He will FREAK OUT. I am excited.
4. Baby G is a delightful fat pudding. He wakes very briefly a couple of times a night to feed and goes right back to sleep, no fuss, no muss. Naps are another matter – he’ll nap quite well in the Moby wrap or the swing, but not so much in his bassinette. Every time I plop him in the swing and he immediately calms down, I feel first-world internet-mommy guilt. Shouldn’t I be wearing him? Am I raising a container baby? SO MUCH ANGST MY GOD. It’s insane, he’s maybe in the thing for a couple of hours out of every 24, and yet this horribly judgmental voice quacks at me whenever he’s in there.
5. Baseball registration for Harry is tonight, and swimming registration is this morning. It’s a part of Western parenting I never had much exposure to as a kid; there was seldom any money for extra-curricular activities, so the mad dash of lining up (or the frantic calling and calling and calling) was a bit of a shock to me when I had kids and wanted other people to wear them out for an hour a week. I’m still not great at it – Ron really wanted to play spring soccer and I completely missed the boat on that one – but I’ve got my notes and class choices all neatly written out, and am just waiting for the registration page to open so I can get in there. There are only three possible timeslots where both older boys can be in the same pool at the same time – living the dream, I am! – so I’m all nerved up to do battle for them.
Oh! And one more thing. If I win the lottery (well, if Hubs wins the lottery, he’s the one who buys tickets) number one on my wish list has become My Own Bathroom. This week I went into the bathroom to give G a bath, and stepped in a puddle. Not water. Someone is not so hot on hitting the goddamn toilet, even though it’s a foot across and the boys do not urinate through large-bore fire hoses. Later the same day, I went in for something else and there in front of the toilet was a small poo-let, because according to Ron, he “didn’t quite make it” to the toilet. I WANT MY OWN BATHROOM. YE GODS.