This morning, at 5, I heard someone yelling, “MY FEET! MY FEET! I have to wash my feet! WASH MY FEET!”
Quinten had his first bad dream and it was about his feet getting dirty, which makes sense because he’s rather particular. The other day as I wiped down the kitchen counter he said, “Mommy I like it when you clean”.
I felt rather defensive about it, but that’s not the point.
After I managed to wake him up, he was hungry, so we sat on the couch eating a chocolate granola bar (*A sign of a terrible mother? If you want to meet another terrible mother click here). Of course, he couldn’t just EAT the granola bar, he had to count the chocolate chips. “One, two, free chocolate chips….four….one….”.
My brain was screaming, “JUST EAT THE GRANOLA BAR SO I CAN GET BACK TO SLEEP!” but I managed to keep my real feelings under my hat, because he kept giving me hugs and saying, “Sank you for my granbola bar Mama”
Now he’s sitting on the living room floor holding the arm of his wooden rocking chair. He just ripped it off of the chair, now broken and he’s working on “fixing” it. He’s rubbing it on the carpet…I’m under the impression that he’s working on a static electricity thing.
I just asked him what he was doing and he said, “No.”
Ah, two year olds.
Now he’s gotten his little paws on the door stopper; he’s trying to attach it to his rocking chair arm. He’s saying, “Okay…perfect….is dis da way it goes mama?”
Soon he will be three. He looks bigger to me, not as babyish. When I say, “You’re my little boy” he says, “NO! I not, I’m your big boy”, and I’m afraid it’s true. There’s something about this morning that makes me want to record the tiny details of this day, June 11th. The day that Quinten is two, not twenty, not three.
Time is not the friend of mothers. I wish I could bottle today and save it forever; Quinten wishes that door stoppers could meld with rocking chairs.
“You can’t have that wish Little Bear.” –Else Holmelund Minarik
I’m joining up with moms without blogs for conversations with my kid.