Was reading a book tonight to the littlest right before bedtime: Webster, the Littlest Frog. It's about this tiny frog who is always by himself because none of the bigger frogs will let him play. "Scram, shorty!" says one nasty frog. Of course, all ends well with the littlest frog showing the bullies that he may be small, but he's smart.
So Rohan, now having become an angry young man who uses fists first and asks questions later, says, "He should just hit the big frog under the water."
"No hitting, Rohan," I frown. "That's not nice."
"Then he should just kick him," Rohan says.
"No, Rohan! Kicking's not nice either!"
"Then he should just kill him," says my 3-year-old, obviously oblivious to the message here.
"Rohan, no!" I say desperately. "If we want to make friends, we should use our words, not our hands!"
"But if we don't want to make friends, then we shouldn't use words," Mr. Logic replies.
Aargh!
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Beating a Hasty Retreat
"Mom, why do your eyes get stripes?" asked my talkative 3-year-old, one beat before I was going to shut the door to his room leaving him to a blessed nap.
I paused, exasperated. It had been another long morning of chores, general running around, booking stuff for our forthcoming vacation, and taking care of the in-laws (yup, they've been in town since April). Plus I had had a king sized fight with P that had ended in tears.
I really, really was looking forward to Rohan's nap, hoping to escape to a similar oblivion for a half-hour at least. The last thing I wanted to do was answer yet another question.
"I don't know of anyone whose eyes get stripes," I said quickly, moving the door an inch closer to shut.
"Yes they do!" chirped Ro. "If you talk a lot, your eyes get stripes."
"My eyes don't," I said, before shutting the door.
Talk about beating a hasty retreat.
I thought later, I bet a better mom would have paused, dredged up yet some more patience from her never-ending quota and answered thoughtfully after some serious contemplation, which would have led to another seemingly endless conversation about nothing in particular.
Moi, I exited fast. At least this time.
But it's OK to be less than better sometimes, isn't it? It's OK to be unperfect in an unperfect world. I should wax eloquent over this, but I am too sleepy. It's my naptime, so time to beat yet another hasty retreat.
I paused, exasperated. It had been another long morning of chores, general running around, booking stuff for our forthcoming vacation, and taking care of the in-laws (yup, they've been in town since April). Plus I had had a king sized fight with P that had ended in tears.
I really, really was looking forward to Rohan's nap, hoping to escape to a similar oblivion for a half-hour at least. The last thing I wanted to do was answer yet another question.
"I don't know of anyone whose eyes get stripes," I said quickly, moving the door an inch closer to shut.
"Yes they do!" chirped Ro. "If you talk a lot, your eyes get stripes."
"My eyes don't," I said, before shutting the door.
Talk about beating a hasty retreat.
I thought later, I bet a better mom would have paused, dredged up yet some more patience from her never-ending quota and answered thoughtfully after some serious contemplation, which would have led to another seemingly endless conversation about nothing in particular.
Moi, I exited fast. At least this time.
But it's OK to be less than better sometimes, isn't it? It's OK to be unperfect in an unperfect world. I should wax eloquent over this, but I am too sleepy. It's my naptime, so time to beat yet another hasty retreat.
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