This morning was for Squish. I took him in for his well-baby check-up — the one that I forgot about on Friday — and cooed at him and chased him and spilled the beans about him as was appropriate. Manchild was kind enough to play in the waiting room and not commandeer the doctor’s attention while he was focusing on evaluating Squish for serious defects. (Thankfully he was relatively free from bumps and bruises, which led to the illusion that I manage to keep him from falling from high places.) And at playgroup later on, although Manchild was clearly bored (he’s the oldest kid by about a year), he played well, snacked well, and showed off his listening skills well by climbing into my lap and trying to kiss me while the parents talked about being careful how you kiss in front of your kids because they’ll copy whatever you do.
Nice demonstration, Son. I appreciate it.
Squish, of course, had a ball at both places (aside from the shot at the doc’s), and was exhausted from all the attention he’d been getting. So once he collapsed in his crib for a long nap, the tables turned. It was Manchild’s turn to do whatever he wanted. And he wanted to play games. (“We have not played this game in a long time, Mom. Will you play this game with me?”) And so we did. Two rounds of Go Fish! (one with the ABC cards, one with Impressionist artist cards — the major difference between the games is that with the latter you must tell your opponent to “go fish for art” or it doesn’t count) and two rounds of Memory. Personally, I like Memory better. I’m better at it and I decided to bust out the camera half way through the first game. Manchild insisted I take a picture every time he got a match, and then insisted he get to take a picture every time I got a match. (Imagine me letting him hold my precious camera for a few shaky seconds, “Okay, push the button, okay, good job, okay, let’s put the camera down now.”) Everything is more fun when a camera is involved, right? Except maybe family pictures, but let’s not go there.
It used to be that afternoons were my time to myself. I looked forward to it all morning — to getting the boys down for naps and then being able to write or sew or cook or whatever. But since Manchild doesn’t nap any more, I don’t have that. It makes afternoons kind of tiring. I still pretend it’s my time — because Manchild can entertain himself, right? — which usually means I spend a lot of time trying to get him to leave me alone so I can do my thing. But it’s ever so much nicer to give in every now and then. Give him his time. We spent maybe an hour playing games. Then a half hour baking muffins. And then he was perfectly content to do his own thing while I did my own thing. It’d be nice if it were always that easy. It was nice that it was that easy today.