This morning, Anders got a sucker stuck in Mette’s hair. He yanked it out – causing her to wail. Loudly. But, as I questioned what had happened, he assured me all was well. “She’s not crying any more,” he pointed out; then, looking at her sucker-stained, blue face, and her spiked-up, sucker-pulled hair he added (with a shrug), “She just . . . looks like a goblin beast.”
All’s well that ends well I suppose.
I’ve noticed, of late, that there are quite a few areas where I have become fairly apathetic in my mothering. I might, I suppose, spin it as having gained a few years of motherly maturity and perspective.
I’ve been around long enough, I could argue, to know that a toddler drinking a bottle long past age two, a needed child bath delayed another day due to late nights and family busyness, or a week off of a proper nap-schedule really doesn’t matter much. I could shake my head over the silliness of the parenting techniques the 26-year-old, mother-of-two version of myself would have balked at.
But . . . the truth is . . . it still boils down, fairly often, to simple laziness. I’ve got a lot of little kids. And I’ve had babies or been pregnant for several years in a row of late (in fact, if this little boy were to show up two weeks early, I’d have had babies in 2014, 2015 and 2016!). Sometimes, I simply don’t have the will or even the desire to change anything about things like . . . two of my youngest eating Halloween candy for breakfast while throwing scraps to their baby sister on the floor (and, apparently, landing some of those scraps . . . in her hair).
Sigh. Shrug. Eh. They’ll still turn out all right.
After all, they still get to carve pumpkins.
And wear costumes.
And make cut-out-cookies. (Thank you for overseeing that, Goldie!)
They should be just fine.
Or . . . fine enough.
In other news. Abe. What on earth? He is nearly, though not quite, 16. That doesn’t sound much older than 14 to me. But somehow, between 14 and 16 he’s completely changed! At 14, just two measly years ago, there were still plenty of lingering traces of boyhood. They’ve all but vanished in this short span of two years.