So. Summer vacation.
I love my kids. Really. I do. I love them. And I love spending time with them.
But sometimes, they are irritating little poops.
This actually came out of Caleb today, a dramatic litany spoken in but a single breath:
“I don’t want to go outside any more because I lost my two best hitting balls and my bat is dented and when I swing, Kiah tries to bite my feet and Kiah won’t chase the ball or the Frisbee, she only does that with dad, and I get too hot and there are wasps by that bush and my boomerang always gets stuck in the tree and also the neighbor says bad words when he’s on his phone and I’m afraid he’s going to drop his phone into his pool when he’s in there and get electrocuted and also… you really need to pick up the dog poop.
"Can I play Wii?”
And this is only day #2. I’m screwed.
Caleb also has a developed a tic- not of the lyme disease variety, but of the Inspector Dreyfus in the original Pink Panther movies variety. He compulsively looks upward, almost like he’s rolling his eyes, which has gotten him in trouble with some of his friends. I’ve looked up childhood tics on the old internet. To gain an understanding of people who have uncontrollable tics, one child health site said to imagine keeping your eyes open and willing yourself not to blink. As time goes by, it gets harder and harder to keep those eyes open. Eventually, you just have to blink. This is what it feels like to the child (or adult) who blinks uncontrollably, jerks their head, or has some other compulsive movement.
Caleb’s cool about it- not that self-conscious. He will gladly explain to you why it happens, with a shrug and a “that’s just what I do,” kind of pragmatism. I worry, of course. I mean, he’ll be fine, but society in general is not generally kind to those with neurological hiccups.
I’m hoping that a nice, long, relaxing summer of bugging me to play Wii will help. After all, Caleb is an introspective sort of person; very serious, very thoughtful. When he’s completely relaxed, there are fewer tics. To be honest, and I don’t mean to get braggy, the tics are probably a sign of genius.
Society is also not kind to the four-year old who talks in gibberish and still isn’t quite potty-trained. (We’re SO close!) Or rather, they are confused. In their round-a-bout ways, curious observers want to know: “What is WRONG with your child?”
I don’t know. I don’t know why, when I ask her what she had for breakfast this morning, she answers: “Breakfast. Yeah.” Why she can’t say, “I had a waffle.” As I write this, she is shredding a napkin at the table. If I don’t get up and intervene, soon the napkin will be all over the kitchen. And, there it goes. My homemade confetti machine at it again.