Milestone of the millennium: The child who once upon a time screamed bloody murder if you got within ten feet of him holding a bottle of shampoo has started washing his own hair. It’s a miraculous thing, really; up until very recently I had disturbing visions of following him to college in the capacity of official hair washer. (Creepy inDEED.)
He couldn’t have picked a better time to reach this goal, as my bulging belly makes it painful for me to lean over to hold a washcloth over his eyes with one hand and lather with the other and then help him tilt his head back to rinse while he makes pitiful little panicky noises. A couple of nights ago I was doing laundry when I heard something that I can only imagine is what a drowning kitten would sound like.
Before you call CPS on me, let me clarify that he takes showers, not baths, so the danger was more that he’d snorted some suds up his nose than anything more dire.
“Alex?! Are you ok?” I called, starting for the open bathroom door.
“Yes!” [Gulp, sputter, cough, snort, gasp.] “Yes! I’m DOING it! Don’t come help me!” [Gulp, sputter, snort.]
The finesse will come in time, I’m sure.
That independent streak of his springs, I think, from his desire to be like his daddy. Unfortunately for him, he has an attitudinal streak that is just like mine. (Steven points it out frequently. “You can’t get mad at him for that,” he says when Alex stomps away in a huff because I’ve said no to some outrageous request. “That’s all you.”)
This morning I asked him to hand me the milk. He got distracted by string cheese, so I got the milk myself, used it for his cereal, and put it back.
“I wanted to hand you the milk,” he complained when the string cheese lost its hold on him.
“Well, I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry and you weren’t paying attention,” I said.
He thought about it for a second. Then he walked back to the refrigerator, opened it, took out the milk carton, plunked it down on the counter next to me, waited two seconds, and put it back in the refrigerator. Wow. (And yeah, I’d’a done the same thing, maybe.)
Baby girl is running out of room. I get fewer kicks and more shoves, which are decidedly less enjoyable. I mean, I love the kid, but my spleen was there first.
I’ve officially lost my office key card, which means I have no at-will access to the bathroom. This could be interesting. And by interesting I mean utterly disastrous.
Happy Friday, all!
I bet he felt so good and justified after the milk incident. There is nothing better than stubborn induced satisfaction. The "if it is to be, it is up to me" gene is not a fault but a strength. At least that is what I keep telling myself. Good job Alex, way to follow through!
ReplyDeleteOh, and I can tell you this now because it is two years later. The summer we went to the beach and Steven brought Alex, his hair didn't get washed that often. We opted for sandy, straw like hair for him rather than torturing him during the bath. The only one who could wash his hair was Nana and even then he was not a happy camper. He might have had it washed two times tops during the week.
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