Or, Things my Almost-Three-Year-Old Teaches Me
I’ve been hanging onto this story for a while now, waiting for the perfect time. Well, guess what? There is no perfect time, ever!
There have been Mother/Daughter tea parties for American Heritage Girls.
There have been recorder concerts where I waited, patiently, for the third-to-the-last name on a very long program.
(Which is not to say that all those other performances were not gripping.)
(And did you notice I’m wearing the same thing in both photos? That’s because I raced from the first event to get to the second! Tell me that’s not crazy and I’ll reply, it’s what we do.)
(We look tired, but we do it.)
In short, there has been all sorts of living going on around here and I’m finding it hard to pick and choose, let alone keep up. I know, though, that if I didn’t try to record these moments…did not try to make sense of them…
Well, as a writer, I have got to try, even if it means ignoring the kitchen floor to do so. (Don’t worry, dear oldest & perfect sister–I promise that I’ll scrub it later!)
This is a story about my 2-year-old George.
He will be three in one short month and I can’t believe it. I can’t. I won’t.
(It’s a “he’s the last one and I’m in denial” thing.)
So we were at a meeting, George and me. My friend Cathie had generously offered to keep him that night; however, in a fit of unexpected insanity, George said “no.” He chose a small, stuffy room over the Disney World that is Cathie’s house?
Go figure, he must love his mom.
I told him that Momma had to sit at a table and that he must play quietly until I was done. Fortunately, there was another little boy his age, and once they’d overcome their “Who the heck’s he” trepidation, they settled in together.
Here’s a visual from a different day. Aren’t two-year-olds cute? They totally are!
However, they can also be…stinky.
Eventually they are.
We had been at that meeting for about an hour when suddenly I smelled the “smell.” Gesturing for George to come over to the table, I leaned down and whispered, “Are you stinky?”
“I not ‘tinky,” he said, glancing over at his new friend. “He ‘tinky.”
I did a quick diaper check and saw George was right. It was, indeed, the other little boy; the pungent smells from his bottom were filling the room.
Meanwhile, the meeting continued. The leaders continued to plan and discuss; the smells continued to waft and distract; and the mother, she did nothing. For about fifteen minutes, she did nothing—and I thought, “Can she not smell that? She’s killin’ me, man! Is this a Lenten thing?” Eventually, her son wandered over to the table and the mother apologized, laughing, “Please forgive my son; he’s offensive!”
But still she didn’t change him.
To be cont.