As N~ and I were doing school this morning, W~ came into the school room to tell me that the DVR’d episode of Scooby Doo he had been watching was over and a “boring grown-up show” had come on in its place. I told him to just play for a few minutes and I would come take care of it when there was a break in N’s lesson.
A few minutes later, W~ came back into the room.
“Mommy, what does Casanova mean?”
Yes, I got up then. Thank you, VH1.
A few days ago, my friend Nicole wrote a post about how her almost-four-year-old son, Benny, came up to her and serenaded her with a song professing his love for her. I asked her if she cried. I would have cried–and I have a cold dark spot where my emotions should reside. The video of Benny singing Mother I Love You is unspeakably sweet.
At the end of dinner this evening, W~ (who turns four within days of Benny) sat down next to me and said, “Mommy, I love you. But I love Daddy a lot more.”
As if to underscore the reasons for this, when I went to my voice lesson a little while later, Sean took the kids to the store and bought them pie.
He jumps on the trampoline with them while I cook dinner. I spend the whole day saying things like, “Don’t hit your brother with that golf club,” and, “God didn’t intend for toads to be projectiles.”
Dad is fun. Mom is functional.
I will admit to the urge to pull down the front of my pants right there in order to show him the huge scar where they had to cut me open when his particularly large head wouldn’t fit through my not-so-particularly-large hips. I resisted the urge.