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Archive for November, 2014

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My kid talks pretty much all the time. If he’s not talking, I assume he’s sleeping, concentrating on taking something apart, or sick. Here are some of his recent bon mots:

Boo: Can I watch cartoons?
Me: Um, later perhaps.
Boo: Is it later now?

Me: Tomorrow is a school day, and it’s a music day! I’m so excited for you!
Boo: I’m going to cry at school.
Me: Why are you going to cry?
Boo: Because I miss Mama.

Boo: That lightbulb is burnded out. We need to change it.
Me: Oh yeah? How do we do that?
Boo: First you get the ladder from the basement, then you bring it all the way upstairs, and put it carefully over there, and climb way up high, then you take the old lightbulb out, then you put the new lightbulb in, then you put the ladder away!
Me: Yep, that’s how you do it.

Boo, contemplating a container of ice on the deck: What’s under the ice?
Me: More ice. It’s all ice. Ice is very very cold water.
Boo: What will happen if we put more water on it?
Me: The water will turn into ice.
Boo: I want to put more water on it now!

First thing in the morning, clutching his tiger nightlight:
“See, Tigey needs new batteries, so I bringded him out into the hall, and we need to get the screwdriver, and open the battery compartment, and put in new batteries! That’s how we do it!”

At the end of our bedtime ritual, which concludes with him blowing me kisses — something he added this week:
“It’s good to give Mama kisses.”

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The first time I took the Boo into a swimming pool, he got so happy so fast that rainbows shot out his behind. Then the swimming instructor came over and got in his face and he started crying. But the water made him so happy that he soon forgot the scary lady.

Soon, I resolved to sign up for a Y membership so he could get more water time. I figured I could take a stab at swimming laps too, since I hate gyms and I haven’t worked out regularly in at least 5 years. (Probably more like 7 to 10.)

The first time I pushed off from the wall, I got so happy so fast that rainbows shot out my behind. It had been 25 years, but my body remembered how to do what I wanted it to do. I paused in the middle of a lap to laugh. I swam until I was exhausted and hauled myself out, panting my way to the showers, indescribably pleased.

Since then, I swim any time I can. If I am tired when I start, I forget about it in the water. If my back hurts, I can’t feel it when I’m swimming. If I am in a crappy mood when I start, I am pooping rainbows when I finish. The water holds me as I move forward, giving me peace and joy and happiness as I move through it.

I don’t want to call it a benediction, even though it does border on the mystical. But my body loves the water so much it feels like a gift every time I’m in it — even when I’m sharing the lane with a tank of a triathlete and a dogpaddler who belongs in the “old people walking” section.

The other night at the Boo’s first parent-teacher conference, I uttered the words, “Water is his jam.” Turns out it’s my jam too.

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You consistently said you wanted to be a bee for weeks before Halloween. So two days before the big night, Mama got to work with a black sweatshirt, yellow duct tape, coat hangers, pipe cleaners, and pom-poms. Because there might be bee costumes for little boys online, but in the Halloween stores they only have ones for little girls, babies and full-grown women.

You said you didn’t want to go trick-or-treating when you woke up on Halloween.

You changed your tune after your nap, when Mama reminded you about the whole candy thing.

You were a trooper about struggling into your costume – even with the sides snipped, the duct tape turned your sweatshirt-costume into a straitjacket. (Note to self: If the boy is a bee next year, apply the tape after you put the sweatshirt on.)

You looked so great in your costume that somebody thought it was store-bought. (At this point, Mama actually huffed on her nails and buffed them on her shoulder.)

You vibrated with joy every time Mama said you could eat your candy on the spot. A nearby dad thought you were shivering.

You had a death grip on a lollipop in your hand for most of the time we were going from house to house.

You loved hunting for houses with porch lights on. You also enjoyed ringing doorbells.

You asked for chocolate first thing in the morning on November 1, and said you wanted to go to Halloween later that day.

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I'm over 40. I'm at home with a preschooler. Hear me roar.

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