Breakfast at my house (on a weekday when Daddy’s already off to work):
“What is it, Sweetie?”
“What do you need, Honey?”
“Can I get you something?”
“Oh, for the love of Mike, what do you want?”
Lunch at my house:
My 6.5-year-old to her 2.5-year-old brother: “You’re a geologist!”
“NO I NOT A GEE-L-GIST!”
“You’re an oceanographer!”
“NO I NOT OSH-OG-FUR!”
“You’re a geophysicist!”
“NO I NOT A GEE…GEE…NO I NOT THAT!!!”
Me: “Honey, please stop calling your brother things. He thinks you’re insulting him.”
Her: “What does ‘insulting’ mean?”
Dinner at my house:
The typical scenario in which no one needs anything until the moment my rear end touches the seat of my chair. I alternate between being the dutiful, long-suffering mother getting the milk/straw/yellow cup/asparagus that’s been requested and acting like my maternal grandfather. Whenever all of his eight children, their spouses, and various progeny were visiting, my grandpa ate hunched over his food possessively, both elbows on the table, watching the goings-on from the corner of his eye.
In other words, I’ve been working on a post about mindfulness and parenting (in response to a comment on my post “Simply Living: My Voluntary Simplicity Project“), and I find that I’ve not been able to focus long enough to even write it. But I thought you might enjoy this slice of my life (and there’s much more where that came from) while I try to get my frazzled brain around this mindfulness thing.
I’m cautiously optimistic.