With three daughters, my mom must have recited this Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem to us out loud at least once a day. Probably more in her head. I often singsong it to myself in my head, wishing there was the boy poem counterpart. Is there?
I feel like I have *kind of* figured our day's schedule out, 2 months into this stay-at-home gig. It could always vary, but here's an example: Arise (lately around 7:30-8:00 am which is a miracle, people! considering G didn't start sleeping through the night consistently until about 9 months), change diaper, dole out milk (which is like crack to my children. Was it the breastfeeding?), have breakfast and play. Around 9 am it's either playgroup with both boys or school for T. If he's in school, G and I may run some errands, play, and/or I'll try to get things done around the house. Doing extensive chores doesn't usually work out for me, and I'm most often found on the floor, coffee cup nearby but out of little hands reach, reading stories, snuggling, and wishing G would take a nap. (Is that bad?) Sometimes he naps for 3 hours (yes!), sometimes for 10 minutes (noooooo), and then we wait until it's time to pick T up from school.
I'm always very excited to see T when we pick him up. 4 1/2 hours is the right amount of time apart. His eyes light up when he sees me, he runs to me and tells me he missed me and shows me his projects. But here, as we walk out of the classroom, the day can go in several different directions...
T is like the hardworking dad who needs a gin and tonic the minute he walks through the door. Except he needs milk. Occasionally, I'll be uber-prepared and come with a cup for him to sip on during our walk home. If I don't, I know we have to walk quickly before meltdown. Sometimes I can distract him from thinking about his shaking hands by yelling out "wow! look, a brown rock!" or "do I hear a helicopter?!" I've been known to do a crazy dance in the middle of the street just to delay whining. But, on the bad days, the dark days, our two minute walk home becomes excruciatingly long and painful, with little G staring up at his older brother in horror.
On a good day we'll make it home, have a snack and play, play, play. On a bad day, I drag T home to throw himself on the floor until he feels ready to play, play, play. And then, on either type of day, DONG, DONG, DONG. 3pm, the witching hour falls upon us... Nap time is over, it's too early to start dinner (or is it?), and we're sick of playing. We're sick of looking at each other. I lay on the playroom floor, children crawling over me, sometimes sitting on my head, while I dream about what kind of cocktail to start with at the stroke of 5. (Actually, I don't usually start with drinks until after bath time. I need my wits about me while bathing two crazy, slippery boys.) And as my sweet T laughs in my face when I try to put him in time out, and G throws himself on the floor crying because I won't let him play in the toilet, I start reciting, "There was a little girl, who had a little curl...."
(G has curls in the back of his head, though.)
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