My grandmother crocheted me a bunny hat for Halloween when I was little. And I had a full costume sewn to go along with it, cotton tail and all. I loved that costume. I loved that hat. And a few years back my mother found the hat and brought it down for me. Since then it has lived comfortably along side Spiderman and various pirate accessories in our costume box.
But I found a recent use for my old bunny hat the other day. It seems that my four year old buys into eating his carrots when he makes believes he’s a bunny. Maybe its a variety of little boy method acting. Whatever it is, it works.
And so here he is. Convincing himself that carrots are a fabulous idea. For a bunny.
Of course he then insisted I be a silly mommy and try on my old bunny hat. Wonderful. So I suppose I have to eat my carrots now too.
Even larger than life and clocking in at the 97th percentile for his size, my sweet 4 year old isn’t exactly a risk taker. Sure, sure, he’ll jump on my couches until I holler at him not to. But when he finally does get off the couch, he doesn’t jump off – he sits carefully and then stands before running off to cause havoc elsewhere.
He doesn’t like fast slides. He doesn’t jump from most heights. He never wants me to push him too high on the swing. And he certainly won’t get on any semi-fast rides at Busch Gardens.
No way.
He thinks the hill we drive up and down on the drive home from school is a roller coaster. I’m not joking. He even puts his hands up and yells “Weeeeeeeee!!!!!….” So thrilling. Clearly.
My wild child.
So when I signed him up for gymnastics, I assumed this would be a challenge for him. He would have to jump off things. He would have to tumble and feel a little rush of adrenaline and trust that he was safe. He would have to consider the risks of falling and get past them. And when he saw the facility, he was excited to do it. But when I saw the height he’d have to jump off or the slide he would need to go down, I wasn’t so sure.
Yeah, well, with me locked up on an observation deck, behind a glass pane – he did it. He did it fearlessly. He did it proudly. He did without any of my coaxing at all.
I was shocked. And proud. So proud.
And then later introspective.
What is with that? What is with my kids not doing things for me? What is with their nerves and demands that they can’t do it, no way, and that was final.
And then doing it for someone else?
It was his first teacher who finally sealed the deal with potty training. Not me.
It was his father who finally got him to put his face in the water and keep it there. Not me.
It was this gymnastic teacher, who he knew for 15 minutes, who got him to jump off a big red square and balance himself high up on a bar with his arms locked. Not me.
No way.
And it is moments like these which remind me of the importance, the sheer significance, the enormous value other adults, teachers and family members have on my children’s lives.
Because here’s a news flash: No matter how much I think I know best as their mother, I can NOT teach them everything. Not by myself.
No way.
They respond differently to other adults. They have different expectations of themselves. They become different kids with other people. I am their mother and they can be my little babies when they are with me. I am their safe place. Its ok to show vulnerability with me. But for new people, interesting people, different people, challenging people – my children see something new. And they suddenly expect greatness from themselves.
I can love them so completely and entirely – but I can’t fulfill their learning to it’s entirety.
No way.
And I know this might be very obvious to most readers. I know this is a naive realisation. And if its any comfort, its not the first time I’ve realized this. But its just another reminder to let them go. Shove them out of that nest and let them fall and fall and be a little scared and even if I don’t think they will be brave enough to land on their feet, everyone else does. And they do. And I am left amazed once again.
I adore and thank every teacher, adult, coach and family member who has more confidence in my children than I do. You are changing my children. You are making them more than I could ever make them.
Thank you.
Mothering is a mind-blowing experience. Kind of like that hill I drive up and down on the way home from school. Weeeeeee!!!!!!
But will I be any less surprised the next time my children do something for another adult with confidence and flair – something that they swore they could never do, would never ever do, for me?
My four year old left for his first full day of Pre-K today. And my seven year old is already on day three of second grade.
But today is my first day, at home, without my children. No kids, people. No kids until 2:30 in the afternoon!
What to do with myself.
*Silence*
It’s so quiet. It felt great at first. And then, pretty damn lonely too. No noise? …Does not compute.
I can hear the cat snoring on my bed in the other room.
It’s so very quiet.
But there is a strange pang within that I am trying to come to grips with.
No, it’s not a weepy, “oh I miss my boys” pang. It should be, right? I know. So throw in a side of guilt. I SHOULD miss them. And of course I do. But I’m ok with this moment of their new found independence. How am I so calm? Well, my wonderful kids did a fine job over these last few days of summer of making SURE I wouldn’t miss them too much. They did what they could to get under my skin just enough so that I would simply smile and wave, rather than weep and sob, as my husband’s car pulled out of the drive way. They’re thoughtful kids like that. And I love them so.
(And they were so damn ready for school. With beaming grins they practically whooped and hollered as they climbed into the car. How can I not feel happy and at peace about that?)
No there is another strange non-weepy pang within that I am trying to tease apart and figure out.
I think it does partly have to do with guilt. But really it’s this feeling that I need to be doing something productive with myself.
I have all of this time here. And it’s quiet enough to actually think. And nothing is getting any messier. I have the day at my finger tips. Most sane women would throw the laundry in the air, grab that box of bon-bons and dive into a whole round of soaps, dammit. After seven years of wiping asses and making sandwiches and ducking plastic toys – a little relax time is well deserved, right?
*wringing my hands*
I can’t quite get there.
You see for so long I have dropped any and all expectations of myself and my productivity to an all time low. If I can get myself showered and clothed well then YAY for me. Quiet time in the bathroom? It’s a lot to ask but weeee, its a nice bonus when it happens!
But now I can spend as much quiet time in or out of the bathroom as I’d like. At least until 2:30pm. Every other day.
But you see, I feel obligated to get my ass in gear. To DO something CONSTRUCTIVE already. Maybe something that earns money? Posts? Follow ups? Maybe start being more aggressive about ways I can pimp myself for some fabulous, oh so sought after writing cash?
*drumming fingers*
I’m still figuring that all out.
Or maybe actually get this place cleaned up for once? Laundry in its place. Dishes done BEFORE dinner. Oh, plan and MAKE dinner AHEAD of time! Clean out my closet. Change that damned kitty litter.
Or maybe I can finally be that mom who makes muffins and cookies and has them ready when they get home! And maybe I can be that mom who is calm and loving because I’ve HAD my “ME” time for the day. I can feel refreshed and ready to *bing* (cue cheery, June Cleaver smile) be that wonderful mom I swore I could be before I got knocked up.
What to do.
I can’t just do nothing anymore. I can’t just wallow in time to myself. My husband works his butt off all day, everyday (weekends too, I swear) all for us. SITTING AROUND just doesn’t seem… right.
But it’s weird too, you know? Just weird. Weird for me to prioritize my schedule the way I want to without any distractions from 8:00am – 2:30pm three times a week.
(That may not seem like that much time but, my friends, it’s a lifetime to me… a lifetime I tell you!)
So what have I done today so far? I have been productive but its been all about catch up and follow up and just doing things I should have had done days or weeks ago.
I didn’t even do the bills.
I didn’t make those muffins either.
And it’s 1:30pm.
Maybe I can squeeze those muffins in right now.
This new time to myself world is a strange, odd, unfamiliar transition for me. But I had better get used to it. Whether I make myself super useful or put myself first in whatever way – my kids are going to be spending more and more time away from me.
(Oh that weepy stuff WILL catch up with me, don’t you worry about that.)
Next year they will be in school all day, every day. Then it’s middle school and sleep overs. And then high school and driving. And then college.
My eldest is ONLY ten years away from COLLEGE.
Time to get my ass in gear and figure out what the hell to do with my time. Time to finally establish myself as a useful human being, capable and ready to make my mark on this universe in so many other ways than parenting.
While looking for some old toys for my kids to play with up in the attic of my family’s Cape cottage, I found a fantastic back to school treasure. I found my old third grade book bag. But what makes this bag so unique? Well it’s a book bag from the American School of Mogadishu. As in Mogadishu, Somalia – which is where I lived for almost two years as a child.
I bet its one of the only one of its kind left.
And I would bet the school where I spent so much time is no longer standing either.
My father laughed when he saw it. It’s a crazy thing to look at now. The American School of Mogadishu. As if it was the most normal thing in the whole world. And to me, as an eight year old, it was. I told my father I actually missed Somalia and would love to go back someday. He looked at me like I was insane. And I looked at him like he was insane – HE is the one that brought my family over there in the first place. But nevertheless, Somalia was my adopted home for two years of my childhood.
Like any school, we had a playground. There were swings and big iron monkey bars where I spent most recesses, preferably hanging upside down, gazing out at the orange sand covering the grounds and the dry brush and acacia trees beyond that.
My classroom was like any classroom but with a cement floor and glass louvered windows on one wall. I practiced cursive, learned fractions and read about the nomads in social studies.
Our library was a cool reprieve. We were read “The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe” during circle time. And I would sneak off to read on my own. It was there where I learned to love to read. I think I must have checked out every donated Nancy Drew book they had at least twice.
I brought my lunch to school along with my water – which had been boiled and filtered to make it safe enough to drink. And like any other American kid, I brought peanut butter and jelly to school too. Granted that was easy to ship over and store. Our house had an entire air conditioned store room filled with canned, jarred and powdered foods. And all the Christmas candy was hidden far up on a distant shelf. My brother and I considered sneaking it down on many occasions. So we didn’t care how stale it was once we found it buried at the bottom of our stockings months later.
I thought it was cool that I didn’t have to walk to school. But I didn’t think it was cool that I went to school Tuesday through Saturday. Who goes to school Saturday? The traditional American schedule was changed to match the Islamic calendar. And we also went to school from 7am – 1pm. Because it was too damn hot to be out and about after 1pm.
I didn’t use the bathroom that often. I had a bad experience with a wasp hive nested under the toilet seat. I got away unscathed but my best friend ran out of there screaming once when a rat swam up the toilet to say hello. So I preferred to just hold it.
Once the sun had a set a bit, my brother and I would climb up the wall around our house and sit. We would watch herds of goats and sometimes camels go by. We waved at the kids. My brother knew some Arabic. I did not. Sometimes we would jump off the wall and run down the dusty road to find a local tea house. We’d duck inside and be given sweet, creamy tea made by a Somali child’s mother. It was delicious. Or other times we would jump off the wall and head towards my friend’s house who had lots of Barbie stuff. She also had a Dik-dik in her yard – which was very cool.
We heard the call to prayer five times a day. It was extraordinarily comforting. In the distance. Like a song. The world would stop. And we would watch. And wait.
I had a wallet with Mecca on it, I thought it was so cool, I felt so grown-up using it. I found that in the attic too this summer.
I also discovered rock music in Somalia. An unlikely place it would seem. But thanks to a crew of totally rad 8th graders and a tape deck left next to a pool at the local American compound, Joan Jett declared that she, indeed, loved Rock and Roll. And she sung also about Crimson and Clover. Over and over. So I decided I loved Rock and Roll too. And Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Poolside. In Mogadishu. Nothing better.
A few times my mother would take me to the market for fresh food. We would have to look carefully. We never went to the meat section. I saw the carpet of flies before it lifted to reveal what meat they had. Apart from fish, we stayed vegetarian most of the time. But I still managed to catch a decent case of dysentery. I think most kids did.
I didn’t have a concept of how safe we were – or not. Somalia was at war with Ethiopia at the time. I remember hiding under the stairs when mortars would fly into town. It never felt close. I was never too worried. But the Somali people I knew protected and cared for me. So tall, beautiful, flashing smiles, kind and patient.
Once in a village far from Mogadishu, I was surrounded by so many children touching my hair. I didn’t understand. The translator said they had never seen blond hair before. Oh. Cool. No big deal.
As my father says, “Those were the good days of Mogadishu”. Good days. Even at eight I understood the depth of poverty there. Of all the places we lived, I never saw anything like what I saw in Somalia. Distended bellies, hunger, disease, flies, drought, muddy wells, nothing.
A woman tried to pass her baby through our car window once. She thought he would have a better life with us. With a house and electricity and an air conditioned store room filled with food, and clean, filtered water – he would have. My mother never forgot that little boy and used to wonder if she should have taken him. She also wondered if he was still alive.
So my children are heading back to school now. I am packing up their Target bought book bags and sending them to school with sandwiches, cheese-its and juice boxes. Their daily routine is as normal for them as mine was in third grade. Relatively speaking, and in the mind of a child, neither seems more extraordinary than the other.
I wonder, with my 37th birthday looming, if it is a little late to learn this lesson. I am thinking it is.
As a child there are constants in your life. People. Places. Things even. There are traditions and cycles and schedules we depend on. This is where we always go for groceries. This is the bowl I always eat from. This is how my grandfather’s garden smells. This is where we go on summer vacation. This is what my mother always says. This is how it is.
I think as children, we fixate on these constants. In the first years after we arrive into our world, we experience extraordinary change. There is so much to learn and realize and grow up into. As our world moves and shudders under our feet, we steady ourselves with what is always there. What we know. If I walk into my home, my room will be up the stairs and straight ahead. The Cheerios are always kept in the cupboard over the stove. The house key is kept on a string inside the hall closet door. Always. And, as children, if we find our constants change even slightly, we panic.
My boys depend on routine. It is their religion. They move in their cycles, they are comforted by them. I joke about their OCD tendencies but completely understand them. What do you mean a fat man named Santa comes into my home once a year to deliver stuff? Are you sure thunder is perfectly ok even though it sounds like the world is exploding above my head? Wait, we’re floating on a planet in the middle of a wide unknown called space? *breathe* Mommy will have my favorite yogurt ready for lunch, we always drive this way to school and I get to stay up until 8:30pm on weekends. All is well.
But then there are life changing moments. You move. Your school changes. Your friends are far away. What was constant is no longer. A new normal is established. I understood these changes well as a child. And, because children do learn new things quickly while clutching onto remaining constants, I assimilated when needed.
Because there is always some familiarity somewhere. My grandfather’s garden still smelled the same, no matter how many years had passed before I stood in it again. My mother always said those same kinds of far too annoying but strangely comforting things. And decades later, that very same grocery store I shopped at as a child still exists – with the same graying employees smiling down at me in line.
Death does a fairly good job at ripping most constants (the constants that were always always there no matter how far or how often I moved) apart.
Voices that soothed and moved you through a new world are gone. The world’s they created, the homes they kept, the things they bought to fill them, the foods they made, the gardens they grew, the traditions they kept, the sayings they always said over and over again… that is immediately gone.
You can’t return.
You can’t hear the door creak the way it used to and slam behind you. You won’t find the Cheerios kept where they always were. You won’t hear the sounds of your mother – her certain clicking, scuffing pace down the hall. And, when you wake up far too late on a Saturday morning, you certainly won’t hear your grandmother singsong from the kitchen: “Good morning Merry sunshine, how did you wake so soon? You chased the little stars away and shined away the moon!”
It’s gone.
And that is how the world is.
Things fall apart.
Things change.
Nothing is constant.
And as adults, we regroup and reshape and recreate our families. We make new constants. We surround ourselves with new everydayness. The Cheerios find a new home in your pantry. And maybe you redo what they did. You recreate it subtly with every hope that the constant in some quiet, private comforting way remains.
I miss those people. I miss those places. I miss those things.
With a nostalgic, regretful, desperate ache rooted and wound into my gut – I. Miss. It.
Still. I have new people and new places and new things.
Apparently this is how life goes.
Things fall apart. Things change. But they renew again. And move forward.
Breathing and hoping.
But missing.
And eating Cheerios for breakfast every single morning.
Adventure Island in Tampa officially began its season of “Island Nights” on June 10th. And the folks at Adventure Island graciously invited me to bring my family and check it all out. Considering how much my children love water and how HOT it has been in Tampa already, we jumped at the chance to see what this water park is all about.
For three nights a week during the summer, Adventure Island opens its doors to families late into the evening. Guests are welcome to cool off at night on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays from June 10th – August 14th.
And why would anyone want to hit a water park in the evening? If you’re asking that question, you’re obviously not from Florida. The sun here is HOT. Floridians are constantly concerned about sunburns and sunscreen reapplication. Also the heat of a summer day in Florida, water park or not, can be a bit overwhelming. Even when the sun sets, the air stays very warm in Florida. So being able to soak our summer weary bodies without the intense sun makes an evening visit to Adventure Island a very cool and refreshing plus.
So what did we think? My boys and I had a fantastic time. Truly. There are water rides for every age: splash pools for toddlers, age appropriate slides, climbing fun, water guns and dumping buckets for bigger kids, and then every combination of water slide for the oldest kids.
And by oldest kids I mean adults. Because there is something about a water park that makes every adult a kid again.
There are good deals for Florida and Georgia residents so check their website for ticket prices. However, be prepared to pay an extra $12.00 for parking. And if you want to rent a locker (which is very convenient) they cost $12.00 a day too. Also, I’ve heard that you need to get to the park early during the day to stake out a spot. We didn’t have any issues with a place for our things during the evening (we also rented a locker) but it is something to be aware of as the park gets busy.
Here is a quick video of our visit. It’s quick because I spent most of my time having fun. But it should give you a feel for the place during the evening. Plus my very sad seven year old at the end of the video (he did NOT want to leave, he had the time of his life, truly) cracked me up. Poor kid. But his tears are a sincere indication of how much fun he really had at Adventure Island that night.
Enjoy!
FTC Disclosure: Adventure Island paid for my family’s parking and admission.
This is a warning to all you parents who think that your pride has any hope of remaining intact during the course of your child’s upbringing . Because heed my words: they will do everything they can to seek and destroy what little bit of dignity you have left. I know this sounds like some sort of conspiracy theory. Because I’m certainly not accusing our children of doing it intentionally.
But they are out to get us.
Before they finally skip off into the sunset of adulthood, expect to be horrified, mortified, humiliated and flat out humbled on multiple occasions, in varying scenarios, in every location – most always public.
You probably already know what I’m talking about. You probably have your own laundry list of mortifying moments to share. If not? Well. Let me share a few of mine.
It’s baby poop on your pants without realizing it, and loud conversations about your privates in the public restroom stall, and climbing on you, hooking their foot and pulling your bathing suit off in the pool, and reaching up from the grocery cart and grabbing your chest to “honk, honk” you in the check out lane, and opening the restroom door and walking out before you’re done, and pointing out the “reeeally really big fat lady” on the bus (full disclosure, that was me at three), and screaming how much they hate their food when your new friend made them dinner, and never ever ever saying hello or good-bye or please or thank you no matter how many times you insist that they do, or announcing the play by play of exactly what you’re doing while holed up in another public restroom.
(Clearly, the public restroom has been a source of much humiliation.)
They are honest. They are saying and doing what they experience. Etiquette and social niceties and even basic manners just don’t come naturally to preschoolers. We try desperately to encourage this instinct, and I think (hope?) it comes eventually. But until then, expect to be booby-trapped at any moment, where your pride falls through a trap door and into the pit of your stomach as you realize your kid has found and unwrapped a tampon (previously zipped away in your purse) and is swinging it for all the customers in the check out line to enjoy (full disclosure: my friend’s experience, not mine).
These moments. They happen all the time. Seared into your memory, convincing your ego you should never set foot in that particular store, friend’s home, or public restroom (so many of those) again.
But these moments also force you to stand nose to nose with your ego and tell yourself to get the hell over it.
Like when you are getting your kids ready for a pool party and trying to smear as much SPF onto your wriggling child as you can and while you’re distracted wrestling him, another smaller child happens to stuff something down the back of your sundress. And you aren’t sure what it was so you ignore it but make a mental note to check your dress after you’re done with this (“SIT STILL!!!”) and then you leave without checking but remember you need cash so you stop at the busy corner ATM. And while waiting in line you glance over at your reflection in the window and notice something not quite right. Oh ok. Now you know what got stuffed down your sundress. A pair of your underpants. Which happen to be sticking out the back of your sundress, sticking out like a little hoodie or cape, but clearly pink underpants, yours, sticking out and flapping in the breeze for everyone in the ATM line to see.
(What did I do? I snapped them off and balled them into my hand and made my transaction as if nothing ever happened. And, no surprise here, I didn’t make eye contact with a soul as I stomped back to the care. And stuffed them into the glove box. Where they remained until yesterday when I remembered to get them out and stuff them into my purse when I dropped off my car for an oil change. But it’s a big purse and I have to dig around to find my wallet to pay for said oil change. So I’m pretty sure the Kia guy at the front desk got a good look see at them too. Yay, Hanes Her Way, in pink, is everybody happy now???)
Parenting requires a very large dose of self-deprecation. And humor. And resignation that your dignity means nothing in a restroom stall as long as every little one got a pee pee in the potty and are entirely wiped and hands were washed.
Onward. Who cares. Pride swallowed. I’m over it. Pink panties stuffed where ever, so be it. Thanks and have a nice day.
Call me an animal freak. It’s OK. I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’m hoping that my animal obsession adoration will be passed along to my children. I’m hoping that they might learn to crawl through the grass following a spotted frog or “oh” and “ah” over animal prints in the mud or bird watch with genuine, honest enthusiasm. Somehow.
So when Busch Gardens contacted me a few weeks back and asked if my three year old and I would like to attend their new series for preschoolers called “Busch Babies”, I enthusiastically agreed. Busch Babies is a described as a 45 minute, three part “educational program” which “combines crafts, story time, and of course up-close and personal visits from special animal friends.”
Yes, please. Sign us up.
We finished our program this past week – and I am so sad it is already over. My son and I had a terrific time. Here’s my take on our experience with a list of pros and cons. And if you don’t feel up to all this reading, scroll to the bottom for a video taken at our third class. It’s pretty darling and certainly speaks for itself.
What We Loved
The staff. Ms. Amber and Ms. Cherish were wonderful and extraordinarily patient. They seem very well trained as educators – especially with this tricky, slightly unfocused age. They were also very well informed about each animal and made every effort to teach the kids at their speed and in their language. And clearly, they were having fun too. (I’ll miss seeing them every week!)
The program. Each class offered a combination of crafts, play, sensory interaction and learning. We sang songs, we touched cool things, we colored and glued and glittered. We even had a small snack during story time. And the best part was – of course – meeting a new animal at each class.
The location. The room we met in was perfect. It was close to the entrance of the park so we didn’t have to trek too far. It was close to the Safari of Fun so that we could head there right afterwards. It was held in a small, comfortable, intimate room with cozy carpets, low lighting and brown papered kiddie tables. Perfect.
Constructive Criticism
One more class. In a perfect world, I would love to see one more class or so added. It took the first one or two classes for the kids to finally get comfortable and used to this new experience. Would it be worth adding more classes even if it cost more? I think so. I should add that they offer a “playgroup” show at the Safari of Fun stage the week following the last class of each session that anyone can attend. We went today and my son loved seeing the staff again.
It’s a time commitment. After driving there, parking, getting to the program, peeling your wee one away from the park, catching the train back to your car, getting back on the highway and home – well, expect a long morning. The good news is that your child will be exhausted. The bad news is you will be too.
Tips for Parents
Be a Busch Gardens pass holder. This program is designed for local parents who are already pass holders and expect to make multiple trips to the park over the course of the year. Be sure to have your parking already included and paid for with your pass or else you will pay an additional $12.00 a day for parking.
Get there early. Trust me, plan for traffic and accidents and who knows what else. (The day I was impossibly late due to an accident, they were very accommodating. Thanks Amber and Cherish for letting me attend the next class!) Also get to the gate early too. Our class was at 10:30am so I tried to be at the gate by 10:00am so that we would have plenty of time to park, take the tram and walk to our class. (Three year olds tend to get distracted while walking through Busch Gardens!
Cost
One adult and one child combination costs $50 for each three part series. $30 is charged per each additional child or adult who joins you. Also this program is designed for season pass holders who have parking included in their annual ticket already. These cost (at minimum) $99.95.
The Next Series
Be sure to check here for upcoming program dates. There are three more planned for the months of May, August and September.
See For Yourself!
Here is a video of our last day of class. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: Busch Gardens paid for our Busch Babies attendance. I paid for all other costs (seasonal park passes, parking, food, etc.).
Nothing spells out a fabulous day of preschool like a sweet little face covered with glitter.
While so trying so very often – I do adore this age. Where life is a curious and carefree collection of moments such as circle time, ABCs, sitting criss cross applesauce, line leaders, elmer’s glue, juice boxes, hand holding, being happy and you know it, peering at ladybugs, make-believe, washable crayons, swings and slides, freeze dance, squishing play-doh and falling into an exhausted heap at nap-time. They are old enough to have thoughtful conversations but still too young to be self conscious about any of it. They make wild leaps of logic with adorable statements such as a headache while eating an apple would be “apple brain” (as opposed to “brain freeze” while eating ice cream). They hum and swing their arms and live for the present – assuming there is not a bad thing in this world. They trust, they adore, they snuggle, they are much more than wee toddlers but hardly true, rough and tumble, “whatever, mom” kids yet.
Glitter on your face. Such is the wonderful world of a three year old.
(However, I will say that an enormous tantrum erupted from this child once I did try to wipe the glitter off before nap-time. Kicking and screaming and “No wipes! I NOT TIRED!!!!” and wrestling and wrangling until he was in his bed, clutching his bear and weeping about how I wasn’t being nice to him. So. This post was a therapeutic reminder of the glorious, gleeful glitteriness he was only an hour ago. I do adore him so.)
Look, I know watching videos can take a little time. So certainly wait to watch this one until you’re scarfing a sandwich down at work or waiting for the pasta to boil before dinner. But please do watch this. Because I am pretty sure I can promise you 6 minutes and 39 seconds of the the cutest cuteness you’ve ever seen.
I know I know. I’m his mother. The cutest cuteness? It’s a lot to promise and I am far FAR from objective
But come on, just check it out – even for a little bit.
You see, my three year old told me he was hungry. So I handed over an apple. Dinner would be ready in an hour and I didn’t want his appetite ruined on anything else. But I had no idea that today’s apple would result in such careful consideration. And joy. So even if you don’t think this is the cutest cuteness you’ve ever seen, I will promise you this. You will learn how to plant an apple seed with careful direction from a three year old at the very least.
Enjoy this sweet spring moment I captured yesterday afternoon in my backyard.
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