Sunday, March 13, 2005
Now that he's 18 months old, there's no doubt that Ronan is a toddler. It seems kind of a misnomer, though. "Toddler" implies a slow, small, lumbering Michelin man. My toddler ricochets around like he's in a pinball machine, careening from the train table to the play kitchen, touching the dog for good luck, then off to see the Little People.
Ronan can focus, though, if he finds a good project. If you want your clean socks taken out of the drawer and deposited carefully into the hamper, he's your guy. The other day he stole all the potatoes out of the pantry and put them into the garbage can. And when it comes to unloading the groceries, well, who else will cram everything, including the frozen raspberries, into one shelf of the pantry?
Ronan can focus, though, if he finds a good project. If you want your clean socks taken out of the drawer and deposited carefully into the hamper, he's your guy. The other day he stole all the potatoes out of the pantry and put them into the garbage can. And when it comes to unloading the groceries, well, who else will cram everything, including the frozen raspberries, into one shelf of the pantry?
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Let me preface this by saying I am not a neat freak. The marital bed is not made in the morning. The kitchen table collects mail, library books and other debris. There are piles of important papers stacked precariously next to the computer.
But, for some reason when it comes to Ronan's toys I'm obsessed with neatness and completeness. Every night I put each toy back in its place. I am compelled to search under the couch with a flashlight for the key that winds the helicopter. The errant matchbox car that has migrated to the bathroom is returned to its rightful bin.
I have thought to email the company that makes the wooden food to find out how many green beans should be in the tin. What if I'm missing one and don't know it?
The yellow car, a piece of a wooden puzzle, is gone. I've looked under the stove. In the fireplace. Underneath the train table. I've removed the puzzle from circulation and am considering giving it away. It is flawed.
I control less of my life than I'd like. Whether I sleep through the night, how long my shower is, if I am able to sit for more than five minutes of dinner -- these are all temporarily beyond my control. I try to celebrate the chaos that is toddlerhood, to enjoy the shrieks of glee in the middle of the quiet museum and the impossibility of walking anywhere in a straight line.
Perhaps this is why I revel in waking up to a sane living room, the Little People merrily arrayed on the coffee table, the play silks tucked in their bins, the trains lined up on the tracks.
Currently the cow is driving the green plastic garbage truck. And where is the garbage man? According to my husband, he's with the ambulance driver, because she's missing, too. I hope they're having fun.
But, for some reason when it comes to Ronan's toys I'm obsessed with neatness and completeness. Every night I put each toy back in its place. I am compelled to search under the couch with a flashlight for the key that winds the helicopter. The errant matchbox car that has migrated to the bathroom is returned to its rightful bin.
I have thought to email the company that makes the wooden food to find out how many green beans should be in the tin. What if I'm missing one and don't know it?
The yellow car, a piece of a wooden puzzle, is gone. I've looked under the stove. In the fireplace. Underneath the train table. I've removed the puzzle from circulation and am considering giving it away. It is flawed.
I control less of my life than I'd like. Whether I sleep through the night, how long my shower is, if I am able to sit for more than five minutes of dinner -- these are all temporarily beyond my control. I try to celebrate the chaos that is toddlerhood, to enjoy the shrieks of glee in the middle of the quiet museum and the impossibility of walking anywhere in a straight line.
Perhaps this is why I revel in waking up to a sane living room, the Little People merrily arrayed on the coffee table, the play silks tucked in their bins, the trains lined up on the tracks.
Currently the cow is driving the green plastic garbage truck. And where is the garbage man? According to my husband, he's with the ambulance driver, because she's missing, too. I hope they're having fun.
