I am going to irritate the childless and indignant by sharing some funny things Nora has done and said recently. Go ahead, start moaning about how boring, how brain-damaged I am, how I can’t talk about anything but my kids. And while you’re at it, go ahead and eat some shit.
The oppressive Houston heat has caused the insects to try and crawl indoors for cover, thus making our garage a bug cemetery. Anyone who knows me is aware of my utter and complete terror of cockroaches. It is so bad that should I come across one, I will use my children as human shields. I don’t know where this phobia came from, nor do I care. Just keep those little fuckers away from me.
Nora has no such fear (yet), and watches in amusement as I writhe and squeal before a dead bug. To her, it’s just a bug, like any other bug, and bugs are fun to play with and then (possibly) squish. Why is Mama so afraid of this bug that looks so much like the friendly crickets and grasshoppers on TV?
So the other day I was taking the girls out of the car when Nora noticed that I had run over, and completely demolished, an enormous cockroach in the garage. She pointed to it and said, “Oh, poor cricket! It has a boo-boo.”
Uh-huh. God, just writing about it makes me swat at the stray tendrils of hair around my neck as though they were cockroach legs. *Shivers, eyelid twitching.*
I am trying to teach Nora to pick up her toys at the end of the day before she goes up to bed. Naturally, I try to make a game out of it by singing that blasted “Clean It Up!” song and dancing around like a flaming idiot. At first, Nora would sing and clap and dance… and watch as I picked up the toys. After I tried to explain to her that I wasn’t looking for a cheerleader but a helper, she started (begrudgingly) picking up a couple toys. Let’s not kid ourselves, people – even a toddler knows cleaning up sucks ass. You can try to sugar-coat it all you want, dress it up in a song and dance, but it still sucks.
When trying to get Nora to pick up some giant puzzle pieces and put them in their box over the weekend, she quickly realized that this was taking a whole lot of effort (walking over to the piece, picking it up, walking back over to the box to where TH was sitting) that she just wasn’t willing to give. So she started picking up the pieces and, without moving her legs, stretched out her arm as far is it would go, saying, “Reach it, Dada.” Yeah, Dada. She’ll bend and pick up the pieces, but YOU have to run back and forth to the box.
It kind of reminds me of when I played tennis in high school. I would hit the ball as long as it didn’t go out of my racket’s reach. If it did, well, you win. But I’ll be far less sweaty than you at the end of the game. So there. Needless to say, my coach informed me I had no “competitive edge” and would never be good at tennis. Oh, REALLY?
I’m telling you, there is no question this kid is mine. One nice, big family of lazy asses.