Me: Thanks for letting me wipe your nose, Amy. Good girl!
Ethan: I’m a good girl too!
Me: Yeah, you’re a good girl.
Ethan: I’m not a girl, I’m a boy. I’m a girl, I’m a boy, I’m a girl, I’m a boy, lalalalala!
Okay, but if he wants to wear a frilly pink dress to kindy, I may have to put my foot down.
Have done:
* waltzed Amy around the dining room in full view of the neighbourhood to Rufus Wainwright;
* “played” my bass guitar for the first time since oh, the Jurassic Era or so;
* been bled on by Ethan from more than one wound at once;
* hugged my babies, just because they are so clever and funny and oh-so-cute-and-much-cuter-than-yours-of-course;
* watched reality TV;
* read a book on gender duality in preschoolers.
To do:
* get rid of this evil sinus cold that is currently lurking in my nose and throat;
* get a full night’s sleep for the first time in a week (dependent on the above);
* start the three assignments I have due in less than a month.
* * *
College — well, I haven’t written about college, have I? It’s going fine. I mean, the Certificate of Supporting Children’s Learning is level four, meaning somewhere between high school and DUH. Everything I’m told and everything we discuss in class is common sense, like, oh my god, reading to your child is…wait for it…GOOD FOR THEM. WHO’D HAVE THOUGHT.
I have been enjoying it though. Every Monday my day at college begins by having a lecturer read a children’s picturebook to the class. Every book is fascinating and has a positive message and I can’t believe I have never sat down and thought about the deeper meaning in a children’s book. We talked briefly about the mental health issues that lurk behind Where the Wild Things Are and then I came home and read it to Ethan and the discussion we had afterwards was so eye-opening, talking about the security of home and what fun it is to imagine and pretend.
The classes are deliberately vague and overarching, covering many things in a shallow way, but I’ve been picking out things that interest me to research later or things that directly relate to Ethan and how he plays or talks or reads and writes. I’m starting to get really excited about studying next year — but that’s another post, probably after I’ve ranted about the ridiculous incompetence of the Student Loans scheme.
Ethan failed a sight test for the second time this week. He had his first eye test on his first day at kindy, and when he failed I put it down to excitement and distraction and thought little more of it. But on Tuesday? He failed again. I’m awaiting a referral to the local specialist in kids’ eyes. We’ve been to see him once before when the Plunket nurse thought (mistakenly) that Ethan had a squint, and I know he’s a great doctor, but who wants their preschooler in glasses?
Mike and I both expected the kids to have eyesight problems, given our own state of joint myopicness. I’ve been wearing glasses since age 7, Mike since 12 or so. For both of us it’s been a slow progression from mildly nearsighted to completely reliant on glasses for our everyday lives. I have a terrible feeling that once Ethan gets his glasses, he’ll have them for the rest of his life.
And I feel absolutely terrible. And I know it’s dumb to feel bad about it, because hey! they’re only glasses, right? But damn.
On a much more positive note: we have a disco to attend tonight! The kindergarten is running a fundraiser and I offered to do the music, thinking woo! Lots of rocking out on vintage Elton John and Elvis and maybe some Cash — but of course I didn’t factor in the request list from the morning kids: the Macarena, Crazy Frog, Schnappi, the Bird Dance. I’m buying industrial-strength earplugs to prevent the horrible horrible earworms. And I can’t wait to see seventy preschoolers bopping around and having fun, and I’m dying to get Amy out there wiggling her hips to the music and laughing until she falls down. It’s going to be awesome!
At last, we have before us a toddler. Amy has been walking back and forth, with no encouragement, all afternoon. She strolled into the kitchen earlier and started rummaging through the hot-water cupboard (you know, the one where we toss all our plastic grocery bags and matches and lighter fluid and sharp knives?), so I took her by the hand and she patiently followed me through to the lounge: “Oh hello nice lady, why yes these floors are slippery — and would you be so kind as to remove the six-pack ring from my neck while we meander? Ta ever so.”
I have been reading a book called Frogs, Snails and Feminist Tales about avoiding a black-and-white view of gender and sexism in children, and studies in how gender factors into the way children relate to each other. It’s a fascinating book, not least because the author was inspired by The Paper-Bag Princess, which was one of my favourite books as a child.
These entries have been brief lately because a) I’ve been having trouble finding the time to write; and b) I’ve felt rather uninspired lately and unable to write teh funny. I know the funny is there; it’s right in front of me every time Ethan opens his mouth or Amy whacks Mike in the forehead with a lead block. But I can’t get it from in front of me to on the keyboard. Sorry. I’m sure the funny is lurking.
Amy has learned to dance: she stands up and shakes her teeny-weeny booty to such classics as Row, Row, Row Your Boat, Patty-Cake, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Ring-A-Ring-A Rosie. With the last song, when you get to “A-tishoo, she starts bobbing up and down, in preparation for the falling down, when she laughs uncontrollably. It’s a damn good thing she’s in nappies, because I think she probably wets herself with the hilarity.
Ethan is curled up beside me right now with a case of bronchitis, breathing with a loud rattle and occasionally grunting, because breathing is such an effort, being alive is so hard, oh my GAWD. I feel bad for him, but I also have a headache from the many wake-up calls and the crying and the whining and the million squillion cups of water and the dosing with Pamol and Amoxycillin. He’s blearily watching Toy Story 2 wrapped in a blanket with his Buzz Lightyear doll sitting beside him, keeping watch.
Amy has taken some real steps at last. Last night she played a game called “Watch me walk back and forth between parents because I cannot possibly choose which of you is more awesome”. We cheered and clapped our hands and hugged her every time she completed a lap, and she curled her hands in front of her mouth and grinned at us, delighted in her new ability. When she walks, she keeps her arms raised above her head in a permanent Mexican wave. She looks like a gibbon. It is adorable.
Mr Souness reminded me to tell this story: a kindy mother came to me one day and told me that she’d seen Ethan very upset at kindy a few days ago. Apparently he was crying because he couldn’t find the toy iron, and really had to iron a shirt. He had set up the little wooden ironing board and laid out a shirt, but was stymied by the lack of proper implement to complete the task. The question is, in a house like ours, where would he learn to iron?
And lastly, I managed to freak out a neighbour over the weekend. She is turning forty soon and has made an appointment for her first mammogram. She was telling me she’s a little nervous about it.
“Yeah,” I said, “I hear that the sensation is like having your boob slammed in a fridge door.”
“Uh. Thanks,” she said and poked her tongue out at me. Then she ran away never to be seen again.
So here’s what’s happened in the last week, in summary:
1. I turned 30!
2. Amy didn’t walk! Still!
3. Amy learned to say Up, Daddy, Sock, Shoe, Hey!, Hello, and Oops.
4. Ethan got banned from watching TV. Aw, his first grounding!
5. Amy tried to pop out four teeth at once, and this is ongoing. Please, put us out of our misery. Me first!
Excuse me while I play catch-up. I haven’t been updating because things have been busy and the weather has been good. Who expects two days of warm sunshine in midwinter? Not me!
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