By now I think it’s safe to say that we have enough Legos to start building our own theme park -roughly 900 at last count. All packaged in small boxes of 72 pieces, with incomprehensible instructions. What they should really say is. “The person with the largest and clumsiest fingers MUST assemble the most animals/windmills/spaceships, without blurting out profanity laced tirades in front of your child”.
To ensure a good time is had by all, wait until said child has a fit when someone’s teeny tiny head falls under the couch for the 37th time, calm him down, pull a few Legos out of the dogs mouth and then perform a lively interpretive dance when you step on all 900 pieces trying to tidy up.
Makes me long for the good old days of crayon wall art.
Every night, SB (Small Boy) and I have a lively debate about getting into the tub and what time he goes to sleep. I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones who do this…
This evening’s argument included me yelling this gem: “If you want to get in my bed tonight, you need to take off your underwear RIGHT NOW!!”
So this morning at 4:30 SB (Small Boy) woke up crying hysterically and came into my room. Did I mention he was hysterical? Not the fake, “I want more Skittles because they’re really fruit” cry, this was the real thing. Red face, tears, boogers, shaking – heartbreaking stuff.
When I finally got him settled into my bed, I asked him what his bad dream was about. Ready?
He said, “I had a dream that you were deaded in a Haunted House”. I realized that 4:30 a.m. wasn’t the time for a grammar lesson, so I just asked him how that happened. He said I flew there and died.
Now I have a few problems with this…
One, can’t he just have the regular old “monster in the closet” type of nightmare? Why do I have to be the deaded one?
Two – I can’t fly. Period. Even at my lightest, pre-pregnancy weight, flying was never an option.
Three – We live in a pretty nice neighborhood. There’s one creepy guy in our cul-de-sac but as far as I know Haunted Houses are non-existent. Granted, I didn’t ask when I was buying the house, but one would assume this would come up during escrow.
Of course SB fell back to sleep once he realized I was ok and capable of trudging downstairs to bring him juice, but I was awake for the rest of the morning worrying about dying in a Haunted House. Clearly Disneyland’s out of the question for a while…
It’s bath time, and SB lives for his bath. So tonight he came running downstairs naked, hit me with his weenie and said, “you’re it!” When I was done trying not to laugh and scream at the same time, I said, “we NEVER, EVER play tag with our weenies, it’s not appropriate, yap yap yap!!!!”
To which he said, “Are the Police going to come and get me now?”
Sigh. I guess if he were 20 years older they would…
I was taking a shower earlier this evening and SB went running by the bathroom door and yelled, “I love you mama!” For those of you who’ve read my earlier post about this matter, you’d be (as I was) waiting for the scary music to start. I decided to speed up my shower (California is in a drought, after all), and see just what happened to induce that sudden outburst of affection.
And you know what? It was nothing. House is intact, the pets are alive and nothing caught fire.
So for today, instead of reading bad news and gloom and doom, I’m just going to revel in the fact that a cute, blonde haired kid in his underwear and a batman cape loves me. And that I love him to infinity and beyond.
Even from afar, it appears that SB and his toys can still be dangerous. He’s at his papa’s this weekend, so in between lying on the couch in full slug mode, I tidy up the house so that I can at least pretend I was marginally productive. This usually means putting thousands of tiny little pieces of Legos (why, WHY?) in their boxes, doing 20 or 30 loads of laundry, etc.
Yesterday I was putting away all the parts to Darth Tater (again, why???) and somehow stepped on the little light saber and cut my foot. Blood and everything, and it was a good thing SB wasn’t here because I didn’t even know I could swear like that.
The irony of all this is I had just finished talking to SB about not playing with “fighting toys”, and survived the cod red nuclear meltdown after confiscating his Ninja Turtles until he’s older.
Then I was brutally attacked by a potato’s light sword.