I am spooning squash and cereal into my younger daughter (the squash does not seem to be a popular choice) and telling my older daughter that it is 20 minutes until nap time. It is a beautiful day outside, and I can’t get out to it, and I am feeling cranky and frustrated (and I am not showered; it’s almost 1 p.m.).
How can I get out of the house? It seems that always a child is sleeping (or should be sleeping); that it is an hour until feeding time and I have to make the meal; that going out is futile because we just have to come back in. I felt this way often on vacation, too.
Sometimes Monkey and I run around outside when Bun takes her morning nap. This produces anxiety in me, leaving Bun; I hate to think she’s going to wake up alone. We don’t go far, ever, but we don’t have a fenced in yard and the Monkey will wander. Also, she likes to go next door and “say hi”, which I know my in-laws love, but it takes me out of range of my monitor, meaning I am running outside to see if the Bun is awake yet.
Also, Monkey has developed a fear of bugs. She used to be fascinated by bugs, enthusiatically pointing them out, saying hi to them, saying bye to them. But I don’t know if she was bitten by something recently or what has happened (like realizing she is a girl and girls don’t like bugs?? I certainly wouldn’t tell her anything like that!), because now bugs inspire fear and loathing. And some really funny (to me), frantic dancing.
Last night at dinner, Monkey declared she wanted to go outside, so DearDR took her out. Bun and I went through her bedtime routine by ourselves, which is a rare and peaceful event. When they came back in, DearDR had Monkey tell me about the spider they saw on Bella’s walk. Monkey was clearly anxious in her retelling of the event (starting to dance), but as DearDR coached her she took some deep breaths and calmed down. He told me later that as they walked around, Monkey said her foot itched. He asked what was wrong, and she replied, “Apparently, I have a bug.”
Then today, we were looking at something, maybe a pillow (I can’t remember), and Monkey said to me, in her best Dora imitation, “We say ‘bug’ in Spanish. Can you say ‘bug’?” I dutifully said, “Bug.” She asked again, “Can you say ‘bug’?” “Bug,” I said. She seemed satisfied. I have no idea what’s going on in that little head of hers, as per usual.
It occurs to me now that when I was pregnant with Monkey, we refered to her as “Bug” or “the Bug”. Hmmm. Weird.
I was thinking more like this, than this, though!