Childish Introductions

I think that I ought to introduce my children. They are the inspiration here, and deserve some sort of credit. You’ll hear about them a lot. As a group they function a lot like a pack of puppies, but with more drool and a lot less fur. Individually, they’ve each got a rock star quality that I’m in love with.

Buttercup is our eldest, at five years old, and to call her a princess falls far too flat. I’d call her more queen-ish than anything, with an attention to details and a real sense of presiding over how things ought to be done. There are few rules but her own rules, and if Bubba doesn’t play by those rules . . . Off with his head! She’s as likely to be digging in the dirt as she is to be planning a dress up tea party, and can’t understand why the seeds from her apple that she planted in the backyard yesterday aren’t producing more apples yet. “But I want it to grow today!” Buttercup will spend long stretches of time in the company of nothing but her own imagination. She will even hold whole conversations with imaginary friends and if I accidentally respond, it’s “No, Mommy. I was talking to Abby.” But, lest you think she’s reclusive, she is also the child who started her first gymnastics lesson by standing near the entrance and introducing herself to every girl that walked into the room. Her ballet teacher once told me that (and I paraphrase) Buttercup “has so much positive energy that the other girls want to follow her, but she also has her own ideas, which don’t always reflect what we’re doing.” Now, if I can just harness that energy without killing it off, she really will be ready for her crown.

Bubba is my two year old. He is thoroughly boy and wants you to know it. If he isn’t punting the football in the living room he is probably digging up dirt clods in the back yard so he can throw them at – or over – the fence. Better at the fence than at his sister, I always say. I just keep hoping the neighbors won’t be in their backyard at the time. This child is the reason that, if I can’t find the TV remote, the first place I think I should look is in the toilet. His language skills are coming together at an alarming rate, but he still articulates like a baby. If I quote him as saying “I want to eat the couch,” in real life he probably sounded more like “Ah wah eee kow.” But I know what he meant. I have to. I’m his mommy. And I’m nice enough to translate for you. And yes, he did utter that exact quote this weekend, followed by an enthusiastic chomp into the upholstered arm of my recliner. Buttercup was more concerned with the fact that he called a chair a couch than with the idea of him wanting to ingest the furniture.

The Baby. He is probably the cuddliest and happiest baby I have ever raised. When he isn’t screaming, he’s usually smiling – though it might be gas. That’s why I call him Stinky. He’s so gassy I can play him like a bagpipe. And I’m not kidding about that. He likes to be held as much as he can get away with, but he’s humongous – as far as babies his age go – and I go to bed with sore arms and shoulders on a regular basis. Apart from making music and building my muscles, he doesn’t do a whole lot yet. Though he does contribute heavily to the cuteness factor in the house. He was only just born in September, so he’ll get more exciting later this year, but I’m not in a hurry.

Between them all, we have a pretty good time around here. There are those days, of course, that everybody has, where I want to throw in the towel and everybody cries all at once, but I wouldn’t change my job for another. I will never find another group of people who love me so devotedly – and whom I adore in return. I know that if I give them long enough they will find me terribly embarrassing, but I like that I get to enjoy them now, while they still like to hang out with me all day. Not every mom is so lucky.