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Posts Tagged ‘toddler’

DontTakeMyPicture

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Mouse is Avi’s imaginary friend.  She’s been around for close to a year now.  Her and Mouse’s Sister.

Now that Avi is playing with her friends rather than simply next to her friends Mouse is frequently addressed by her friends as well.  Avi usually corrects them; she alone knows Mouse’s true whereabouts and feelings.

And then, there are times like the following.  They make me laugh so hard I cry. And I can only blame myself for the language since, as my ex just informed me this morning, ‘Damn It’ is apparently my curse of choice.

This was emailed to me by Avi’s once-a-week sitter, who is also one of my girlfriends, and is published with permission.  W__ is her son who is the same age as Avi:

Ok, so we pull away from your house and W__ talks into his cell phone and says “hello, Mouse” and Avi says

“Mouse isn’t here…I forgot Mouse! DAMMIT!!”

And W__ is staring out the window completely oblivious.  And Avi says again,

“I forgot Mouse, DAMMIT, can you beweeve I forgot Mouse, DAMMIT”

And I’m biting my lip SO hard because I don’t want to laugh and call W__’s attention to it but at the same time, I don’t know what to say to Avi about it… So I’m just driving and hoping that she just moves on and then she says,

“DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!

I cant beweeve I forgot Mouse, can you beweeve it L____?”

And I say, “no I can not believe it Avi, that is too bad” and she says,

“Oh wait! There she is, walking on the sidewalk….”

and that was the end of the dammits.

And will I stop swearing?  Damn it, no.  And do I still love Mouse and Mouse’ Sister?  Absolutely.  I never knew so much fun could be had from fictitious friends.

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There was a time when you flew in circles about the room, flapping your wee wings and laughing in delight.

There was a time when the cries ushering from your mouth were only true tears of sadness or hunger.

A hug, a nurse, a kiss, a tickle, cheered all.

Where have you gone, my little fae?  And who is this peskie pixie that has come in your place?

Who screams with a banshie howl, shattering glass with her spoiled desires.

Who refuses to listen to reason and instead throws herself on the ground–a heap of thrashing limbs.

Who screams and screams and screams and screams.

And then screams some more.

Where did she come from and why?

But, of most importance, how do I get you back, child of my heart?

I see glimpses of you as she gasps for a new breath.  I see you underneath it as she whimpers, ‘I want a hug.’  But I cannot give in while she is still here.  That would make her stronger.  Some how I must resist her caterwauling and still find you beneath it all.

I don’t know how to do that.

I miss you, child of my heart.  I miss the mama I was to you.

But, most of all, I miss you.  My little faery child.  I miss you.  I hope you find your way home soon.

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We woke up 15 minutes before her ride was scheduled to arrive.
I shoved her into clothes, stuck a piece of toast in her hand along with a sippy cup of milk.
I had the foresight to run upstairs and exchange the flannel pj bottoms currently attempting to fall down to my ankles due to a sincere lack of elastic for a pair of dirty cargos.
I pushed her off onto her babysitter, grabbed a cup of tea and sat down at my computer to work.
Four hours later, I still haven’t eaten breakfast, I’m sitting in a pj top and dirty cargos, my eyes are still full of sleep and hair is still in bed-head mode.
Avi comes home in ten minutes and somehow I have accomplished so little in my four hours of kid-free time.
And yet, I’m narcissistic enough to take three of those to write this post.
And now I have two minutes to tame my hair, stick in my lenses and pretend I’ve been wearing a bra all morning.

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Some-Day Garden

Pink long-sleeved shirt.

Padded toddler undies drooping in the rear.

Knobby knees and strong skinny thighs smiling at the spring sun.

Fly-away hair.

White socks pulled up as high as they can go.

Brown mary-janes lovingly dirtied.

A stick in one hand, you “tap tap tapped” the dirt in our some-day garden.

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I didn’t bring the spare.  They were nestled in our cold cold car, and here we were in the mall with a puddle of pee and soaked toddler.

Sears to the rescue.

After racing to the potty, cleaning up, and wrapping her bare bottom in my sweater, we headed to the children’s sale rack to see what we could find.

Pink sweatpants for $4.  Score!

But try as might, I coudn’t convince her to wear pants without undies.

So we went in search of the undies section.

“No, honey, those are boys.  How about Dora?  These are for girls.”

“Look!  Minnie!”

“That’s Mickey.”

“I like Mickey!”

I was wearing out at this point so I didn’t care to point out that these were boys undies too.  We paid at the counter, turned down the bag since we were putting them on right away anyways, and went around the corner to hide in the candle section.

I ripped open the package and handed over the pair with Mickey on the ass.

She pulled them on, pleased with herself.  And then looked down and exclaimed: “These are boys’ undies!”

I stuttered, “Uh, well, yes, yes they are.  But that’s okay.  You can still wear them.”  I didn’t think she’d spot the gender-bender.  I figured she’d stick her hand through the hole and exclaim about the pocket.  I didn’t know she could actually identify boys undies.

“When we get home, we should give them to a boy.”

“You want to give them away?”

“Yes.”

“Um, okay, I’ll call and see if W__ needs some Mickey undies.  He likes Mickey.”

“Otay.”  And she pulled on her pink sweatpants and told me to throw the package away so we could go walk around some more.

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