Recently overheard, 6:15 AM:
... snuffle, snuffle, mmm, mmm ... Let's go get ice cream after dinner ... snuffle, shift, roll, roll, roll, snore ...
Friday, June 25, 2004
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
This Isn't Child Abuse, Is It?
So, um, we played fetch with Wrigley yesterday. Is that so wrong?
It all started out innocently enough. We spent the morning berry picking. Wrigley walked with us the whole way: all the way to the end of the berry patch and back, searching for the perfect row, all the way to the end of the perfect row, and then back to the farmhouse to weigh her work. She picked .75 lbs - or .34 kilos, if you will - all by herself, and carried them in a little yellow bucket right up to the scale.
After the berry picking, we went for a picnic, and then took a quick jaunt to see Victoria Lake. Wrig walked almost all the way to the picnic site and most of the way to the lake. Victoria Lake was beautiful but was, in fact, Victoria Marsh, and Wrig - who had been promised water and was most likely envisioning an ocean - was a wee bit disappointed.
When it was time to head back to the car, Wrig decides she is all walked out. I carry her back to the picnic area, but then I decide I'm all walked out. Mom is loaded down with picnic stuff, so Wrig needs to walk the rest of the way.
Wrig. Does not. Want. To walk. The rest of the way.
She's a pretty reasonable two year old, so she isn't rolling around in the forest wailing at the top of her lungs, but she isn't being easily convinced to keep on walking. So Mom - who wins the title of Evil Super Genius for the day (a title I covet yet rarely merit) - throws one end of her windbreaker to Wrig and says, "Here, I'll drag you." Wrig grabs on and gets "dragged" for about half a step. Mom, sensing this isn't going to go well, says, "Hey, you're my little puppy. And I'm walking you on your leash."
Wrig's eyes light up. We'd already seen several dogs at the park. I remind her that we saw a dog the other day that was so excited to go for a walk that he was chewing on his leash. I say, "Woof, puppy, woof," and Wrig woofs right back.
We are marching on down the path, woofing merrily away, when Christie makes a tragic, tragic mistake. She says, "When we get home, maybe we can find you a ball to play with, puppy."
And I say, "Why not a stick? Oh look! Here's a stick. Fetch, puppy, fecth."
Well. The child is off like a shot. Christie and I exchange a look that clearly says, "This is no way to treat a child." But ... did I mention that Wrig was off like a shot? She loved playing fetch. And she got pretty good at it too. She almost always found the stick. She always let go of it upon bringing it back. And she never slobbered all over it like some dogs I could mention. And she managed to romp almost all the way back to the car.
Whew.
It all started out innocently enough. We spent the morning berry picking. Wrigley walked with us the whole way: all the way to the end of the berry patch and back, searching for the perfect row, all the way to the end of the perfect row, and then back to the farmhouse to weigh her work. She picked .75 lbs - or .34 kilos, if you will - all by herself, and carried them in a little yellow bucket right up to the scale.
After the berry picking, we went for a picnic, and then took a quick jaunt to see Victoria Lake. Wrig walked almost all the way to the picnic site and most of the way to the lake. Victoria Lake was beautiful but was, in fact, Victoria Marsh, and Wrig - who had been promised water and was most likely envisioning an ocean - was a wee bit disappointed.
When it was time to head back to the car, Wrig decides she is all walked out. I carry her back to the picnic area, but then I decide I'm all walked out. Mom is loaded down with picnic stuff, so Wrig needs to walk the rest of the way.
Wrig. Does not. Want. To walk. The rest of the way.
She's a pretty reasonable two year old, so she isn't rolling around in the forest wailing at the top of her lungs, but she isn't being easily convinced to keep on walking. So Mom - who wins the title of Evil Super Genius for the day (a title I covet yet rarely merit) - throws one end of her windbreaker to Wrig and says, "Here, I'll drag you." Wrig grabs on and gets "dragged" for about half a step. Mom, sensing this isn't going to go well, says, "Hey, you're my little puppy. And I'm walking you on your leash."
Wrig's eyes light up. We'd already seen several dogs at the park. I remind her that we saw a dog the other day that was so excited to go for a walk that he was chewing on his leash. I say, "Woof, puppy, woof," and Wrig woofs right back.
We are marching on down the path, woofing merrily away, when Christie makes a tragic, tragic mistake. She says, "When we get home, maybe we can find you a ball to play with, puppy."
And I say, "Why not a stick? Oh look! Here's a stick. Fetch, puppy, fecth."
Well. The child is off like a shot. Christie and I exchange a look that clearly says, "This is no way to treat a child." But ... did I mention that Wrig was off like a shot? She loved playing fetch. And she got pretty good at it too. She almost always found the stick. She always let go of it upon bringing it back. And she never slobbered all over it like some dogs I could mention. And she managed to romp almost all the way back to the car.
Whew.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Try This One On For Size
I had some trouble putting on Wrig's shoes the other day (well, not just the other day. I often get them on the wrong feet, but that's another story ...). Her shoes seemed a little tight. We were walking around downtown, and I told Christie that I thought Wrig might need new shoes soon. So Mom said ...
M: Wrig, do your feet hurt?
W: Uh-huh.
M: Where?
W: My toes.
M: Daddy thinks you might need new shoes. Do you think you need new shoes?
W: Let's change my shoes right now.
M: We don't have any other shoes with us right now.
W: Well ... we could change my feet ...
M: Wrig, do your feet hurt?
W: Uh-huh.
M: Where?
W: My toes.
M: Daddy thinks you might need new shoes. Do you think you need new shoes?
W: Let's change my shoes right now.
M: We don't have any other shoes with us right now.
W: Well ... we could change my feet ...
Saturday, June 19, 2004
You Can't Argue With This Kind of Logic
So we're sitting on the couch, and Wrig is gnawing that tender little spot on her forearm, right below the elbow. You know the one, right? I look at her, somewhat quizzically.
W: (without waiting for me to say anything) I was eating my arm!
D: You were? Why were eating your arm?
W: It's yummy!
D: What's it taste like?
W: (as if I had asked the dumbest question in the world) ARM!
(Sorry to both of you who have waited for so long for such a trifle, but sometimes there is so much happening that there's nothing to say, no?)
W: (without waiting for me to say anything) I was eating my arm!
D: You were? Why were eating your arm?
W: It's yummy!
D: What's it taste like?
W: (as if I had asked the dumbest question in the world) ARM!
(Sorry to both of you who have waited for so long for such a trifle, but sometimes there is so much happening that there's nothing to say, no?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
