Last night, in the middle of the Fourth of July fire works, Birdy craned her head around to tell us something. "What?" we yelled. "What?" It was impossible to hear. Backward-shooting stars were exploding in the sky into balls of glittering rainbow, and the noise was deafening. "I said" — Birdy was yelling now — "I don't really like to eat rotten food." Indeed.
I keep waiting for the part where the inadvertent comedy wears off — when we stop laughing, every day, about the absurdly hilarious things the kids do or say. I know it will be different with, say, teenagers. "Mom, I dented your Subaru," just isn't that funny. Although I actually just pictured Ben saying it and it was kind of comical. But tell me: Does it stop being funny?
Then there was the morning last week when we were driving into town, Ben pointing out the various trucks on the road in his sweet/pedantic way. As we were passing a Drake's truck: "There's a pastry truck, Birdy! It sells pastries." A Lay's truck: "There's a chips truck, Birdy! It sells chips. Oh — and there's a tow truck!" A long pause, then an earnest Birdy: "Does it sell toes?"
The thing is, I am forever snapping at my kids, and am always exasperated. I come after them in my awful, neurotic way with wet washcloths and hand sanitizer and sunscreen and bug spray and I ruin their lives. I nag them to finish their milk and brush their teeth and clean up the living room and be careful on the stairs and stop scratching my back with their revolting toenails. I wiggle teeth and dig out splinters and turn an appraising eye to their moles and scalps and infected bug bites and red throats. They are too loud and too wild and too whiny and too bickery and too hot to be crawling all over me like that. But still I can't get over the miracle of having them here.
There just aren't enough ways to tell these kids how much we love them.
Catherine Newman -Ben and Birdy - babycenter.com
I keep waiting for the part where the inadvertent comedy wears off — when we stop laughing, every day, about the absurdly hilarious things the kids do or say. I know it will be different with, say, teenagers. "Mom, I dented your Subaru," just isn't that funny. Although I actually just pictured Ben saying it and it was kind of comical. But tell me: Does it stop being funny?
Then there was the morning last week when we were driving into town, Ben pointing out the various trucks on the road in his sweet/pedantic way. As we were passing a Drake's truck: "There's a pastry truck, Birdy! It sells pastries." A Lay's truck: "There's a chips truck, Birdy! It sells chips. Oh — and there's a tow truck!" A long pause, then an earnest Birdy: "Does it sell toes?"
The thing is, I am forever snapping at my kids, and am always exasperated. I come after them in my awful, neurotic way with wet washcloths and hand sanitizer and sunscreen and bug spray and I ruin their lives. I nag them to finish their milk and brush their teeth and clean up the living room and be careful on the stairs and stop scratching my back with their revolting toenails. I wiggle teeth and dig out splinters and turn an appraising eye to their moles and scalps and infected bug bites and red throats. They are too loud and too wild and too whiny and too bickery and too hot to be crawling all over me like that. But still I can't get over the miracle of having them here.
There just aren't enough ways to tell these kids how much we love them.
Catherine Newman -Ben and Birdy - babycenter.com
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