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!!”
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.
I’m beginning to realize that when SB (small boy) randomly comes up and tells me he loves me, that somewhere in the house something’s gone terribly wrong. I used to get all gushy and buy into his little charade, but now my Spidey Senses kick in and I go into super detective mode.
Things that I’ve discovered “I love you” can mean in the past week or so:
He’s closed the box the cats been playing in and trapped him “so that they can play forever”.
Hot Wheels look great piled up in the toilet.
He’s painted the dog again. Purple and blue like Sulley from Monsters inc.
Since the car was so close, he painted some dots on it to match the dog.
Something broke but he didn’t do it, Woody or Buzz did.
It’s fun to paint the wall with Chapstick!
Or the bathroom mirror with sparkly blue toothpaste!
And if he adds a kiss to the “I love you”, it’s most likely that I should gather up him and the pets, alert the neighbors and evacuate the area.