“Mama, look, I picked a flower. It smells good.”
These are words that I never thought I’d hear my son use. I never thought he’d initiate proper conversation with me. I never thought he’d find joy in little things like that. That childhood innocence. It was something I, as we were walking up the block, in that short little moment, found joy in. He skipped along, picking dandelions along the way, marveling at all of the “flowers.” I remember, as a child, picking handfuls of those “flowers” for my mother, so proud of myself.
We’re of course, still not where he should be for his appropriate age, but the gap is always getting smaller. We’ve finally consulted with a developmental pediatrician to see where we stand. On Wednesday, they will evaluate him for any spectrum disorders, and having already met him, are confident that he isn’t on the spectrum, but honestly, who knows. At this point, who cares? I mean, no one wants their kid to have a spectrum disorder, but it’s not the end of the world, and it doesn’t change him as a person.
On top of this, we’re in the process of four different home projects at once. We’re so ADD that we can’t finish one thing, before starting another, because that would be the proper and obvious thing to do. Most of the projects are tending to the backyard, which is in seriously sorry shape. Having had two kids in the span of two years, naturally something had to give. We’ve hated our deck, pretty much since moving in and realizing it’s a giant subdivision for wasps and yellow jackets to call home. We’re constantly having to spray over the spring and summer months and it doesn’t really help much, on top of the fact that we can’t really spend much time out there. I don’t need the constant worry of wondering whether or not my kids have inherited their father’s fatal allergy to wasp and yellow jacket stings.
My sister just went back to Japan, after being home for a month. Since she’s gotten married, she’s become a more responsible adult and has been wanting to spend as much time with the kids as possible, and I will take advantage of that in the form of free babysitting, even if she does feed my daughter chambord compote. Mama needs a night out and the bonus is that I get a baby that sleeps soundly until at least 6:30 am. Our age difference of five years, growing up, pretty much left us at each others throats most of the time, but now that she lives half a planet away, we’ve gotten closer. Probably because we don’t have to live under the same roof, or within a fifty mile radius of each other. And dare I say, I kind of miss that fucker.