Mama monkey signed up for a race in Hamilton, and I had planned to go with. But a few weeks ago, she said, “Y’know, you could stay home if you want.” Not wishing to look overeager, I replied with something like, “well, I COULD do that. But only if you really don’t need me to go.”
So here I am, taking a break from vacuuming. Here’s how my “wild weekend of being a fake bachelor” looks:
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Cole hasn’t settled on a particular “thing” or character to love. He digs Barney, Thomas the Tank Engine, and today showed an unexpected enthusiasm for Caillou. He gets excited by cars and machines, and loves the various symbols of festive holidays (Santa, snowmen (“men”), and pumpkins). But one theme that seems to be standing apart a little bit is that of dinosaurs.
Let me just get this out of the way before I’m mobbed: I don’t think the monkey is getting any less cute. He’s cuter and more wonderful every day!
That out of the way:
Every parent eventually comes to the point at which they realize their ‘baby’ is gone, replaced by a child. I personally don’t find this a particularly sad occasion, but it’s a notable one. And even though it doesn’t make me ‘sad,’ I’ll miss the baby!
Possibly my favourite thing about toddlers: they don’t know much about fake laughing. And they have absolutely no concept of keeping their laughter in check.
I don’t think I’ve ever tickled my son into a breathless cheek-hurting mess for his own benefit. It’s pure selfishness (well, and sometimes ‘cause I know it’ll make mommy smile in the other room). I absolutely love hearing the sound of his laughter, seeing his dimples deepen on his cheeks as his face breaks out into a huge all-teeth-showing smile. I don’t think anything in the world re-energizes me the same way.
Monkey House is populated by three lovely and wonderful simians–Greg, his wife Alex, and their son Cole. He is a jack of all trades, she is a scientist/athlete, and their son is a poopsmith.