Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Four fights. In which we come out OK.

Mama vs Pasta Serving Bowl

Pasta Serving Bowl: 1, Mama: 0  -- Sadly, during dish washing with a boy and a dog in the mix in our small kitchen, the bowl slid from the dish rack on the counter and broke beyond repair. A wedding present from some of the Mister's old friends from Chicago, we'd loved this serving dish and I'd oft used it for pastas and salads and fruit on our family table, as well as toted it full of goodness to friends who'd had babies and potlucks here and there. Its last use, in fact, was to carry a lemon pea spaghetti salad to a gathering on Friday.

Mister vs Brita pitcher

Brita pitcher: 1, Mister: 0  -- This particular Brita pitcher predates the Mister's existence in my life. They don't even make this exact version anymore. So while he was most sorry that he'd bumped it from the counter, I felt sure it was in part due to its overcrowded nature (the counter) and frankly, the pitcher had served me a long long time. The cracked pitcher went the way of the recycling bin, and a gift certificate from an unknown friend (this continues to happen for us when times get tough; how grateful we are!) helped me procure a replacement right away.

Boy vs Bob Books

Boy: 4, Bob Books: 0

As the boy's hunger for the written word has grown, we've played spelling games in the car, written letters and short words on his back, played with flashcards, shared reading duties with favorite Dr. Seuss and other easy readers. His perfectionistic streak has, up to now, made diving in a less than fully exciting prospect, no matter how very much he loves books, stories, and knowledge itself. His language acquisition and verbal capacity has always been at rapid fire pace -- his first words came at six months ("NiNi" for both Mama and for breastmilk, both, as well as "monkey" at the zoo; his first sentence at nine months old, a telling demand, "Give me that!" which referred to a Pippi Longstocking doll, and went right along with his sassy full on passionate nature.) It'd been a good while since we'd used the earliest Bob Books, so last night I pulled out a small stack and handed them to the boy in the livingroom. As I finished up a grant on my laptop and the Mister watched Monday Night Football on low volume, the boy snuggled up between us and read all four books out loud, from start to finish, noting that he was working hard on new words and was feeling very proud of himself. As were we. Proud of him, that is. Today, he'll get an altogether new stack.

Boy vs Neti Pot

Boy: 0, Neti Pot 1

The cough and snuffly nose that lingers is keeping all of us awake. We're running humidifiers, serving up steamy cups of tea, blowing, blowing, blowing. But this morning I asked the boy about trying out the neti pot. I myself love it. LOVE it. He agreed to try, and was fine at first, but double clutched (as the Mister might say) then sputtered and turned and snot went flying and neti pot water poured on the floor. Yes, there were tears. And tissue. And the passionate declaration, "I hate the neti pot. Can I never ever do it again?"

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