Monday, May 17, 2010
rise of the tyrannosaur
We talk a lot about the Biscuit. What she says, what she does, what she draws. Her recitals and classes. I've got to admit: she's pretty cool.
But what about t.rex? You know-- my other kid?
He's getting bigger and more demanding, kinda like a baby rhinoceros. And he's starting to talk, which is fun. It goes like this:
me: Yes, son?
me: No, honey. You can't go through the gate and into my art studio to play with the mitre saw and oil paints.
me: Okay, here's a sippy cup of goat milk. Please don't leave it under a chair where it will fester and stink and become a solid yogurt cube of doom.
trex: Mama? Cracker!
me: Here are some pretzels.
trex: (throws pretzels, grinds them into the floor, and laughs) More!
me: No, you can't have more. You didn't eat those. You just made my life a little harder. You're cut off. No more pretzels, ever again! Now come here and let me change your diaper.
trex: (in voice of Bruce from Family Guy) Oh nooooo!
Okay, so he's not quite as sophisticated as his sister. Still, at almost 18 months, he's a prodigy with a lightsaber, and he does a great victory dance, especially after smacking someone in the face with said lightsaber.
To continue in the dork vein:
Now if I can just get him past this super-dangerous phase when he wants to scale ladders, lick power cords, eat crayons, and wake up at 5am, I think I might return to sanity.
If that doesn't make sense, it's because I woke up at 5am and have spent the last two hours trying to keep my kid from licking a power cord and scaling the bookshelves.
An unruly job is never done. Never.
Now off to the last day of preschool. Most of the moms I know call it "bittersweet", but I'm just bitter. The Biscuit needs what preschool gives her, and I need what it gives me.
RIP, three-year-old class. We hardly knew ye.