Being a writer and a full time mom can be quite a juggling act. Throw in a string of ear infections, a plethora of pink eye and the usual antics of a four year old diva and her six year old ultra sensitive sister and you have the makings of a whole lot of something going on. (Except writing of course)
I’ve logged in minus 200 words since school’s out and no wonder with scenes like this piling up like chicken wingbones at a sports bar.
Little C: Well I know best, because I am the oldest.
Little M: Second is the best, fiwst is the wowse.
Little C: Well, you don’t know anything, you’re such a baby!
Little M: Well youwah just a dough-head, anyway!
Me: (feeling the vein in my neck bulge as I try to wash the breakfast dishes in time for supper) Guys! Guys! That’s not how we speak to each other in this family. You need to change your tones and apologise.
Little C: Sor-ry!
Little M: Sow-wy!
3 minutes later…
Little M: whack, whack, whack
Little C: Mo-om! M is hitting me!
Me: (Drying my hands for the 6th time since I started supper to break up a fight) M, we don’t hit in this family. Apologise to C, please.
Little M: Sowwy C.
Me: Now go find something to do while I make supper. How about those sticker books we got at the store?
Off they trot…
1.4 minutes later
Little M: Dough-head
Little C: (comes running from the living room) Mo-om! M called me dough-head!
Me: (Exasperated. It’s 5:30, trying to get supper on the table, this is the 1300th Mo-om I’ve heard today) Well, don’t tell me–talk to M. If you have a problem with M, you’re going to have to work it out with her.
Little C: (considers this for a moment, then disappears back into the living room) M, don’t call me that. I don’t like that.
Little M: Sowwy dough-head.
And I wonder why I haven’t written a stitch since June.
Oh, the joys of having the youngest little girl on the street.
Granted, the little girls on our street are very sweet and tolerate having a 4 year old tag along, but it’s not without its challenges.
Little M just doesn’t have the wherewithal to keep up with the sophistication of 6 to 9 year old games. Even I have trouble keeping up at times. So there are times when little M just doesn’t get the joke, feels left out, made fun of, not listened to and let’s just say–the result is not pretty.
Then there are times she doesn’t get it and the results are impishly funny all the same.
Me: Make sure to hang up your clothes when you change into your bathing suit.
Little M: (hand up) Talk to my hand, mommy.
Me: (in my head) What did she just say?
Me: Do you want to wear the goggles?
Little M: (hand up, eyes slanted) Talk to my hand, mommy.
Me: (in my head) That’s what I thought she said…don’t laugh…don’t encourage her.
Me: You know, that’s a rude thing to say. I don’t want you saying that anymore.
Little M: (sheepish grin) Sowwy mommy.
Little C: (chimes up, eyes rolling) And it’s ‘Talk to THE hand’ anyway, M.