It is early. Very-very early. I am in my tank top and jammie
pants. My hair is all over the place. I was dragging from exhaustion and tummy
aches. Kade is lounging around and Ashton hit playing full steam ahead. Another
typical morning at our home.
“Ashton! Seriously? There is play-doh everywhere. It is on
the rug, in the grout all over the place. What are you doing?”
There is play-doh every where. Large balls, bits and pieces.
Smashed and loose. High and low. I have entered what appears to be a play-doh
war zone. He is sitting on the rug with a mound of play-doh atop something with
wheels. He is “vrooming” it all over the place.
“Mom the truck is going camping it needs all of its gear.”
I count 17 empty play-doh cans rolling around
on the art table. Each batch is smashed up to the next and a big packed blob
sits on top of a truck. The rainbow of colors now combined making gray
and brown. I begin picking up all of the loose tidbits. Do I toss all of it
out? It is a ton of play-doh! I am trying to be rational, but the play-doh OCD
is speaking to me. We cannot possibly keep it. The colors
are not to be blended! They are to remain pink with pink and white with white…
not poopy brown. Why do I care? I don’t play with the stuff. Ash could care
less. He just likes the creativity of it. I cannot help myself. I toss it.
Putting it back in that mismatched state made me itchy. I am a work in
progress.
I am moving around quickly. Grabbing, stuffing, tossing and talking.
He is quiet. He is still. He watches.
“Okay, you do not need to have 5 greens open, 3 purples and
etc. One of each would suffice. Please, please ask before you start to play
with this stuff. You know this, buddy. You may not drive play-doh around on the
floor. If you needed space you ask for help to reorganize.”
He just stares at me.
“Dude, are you hearing what Mommy is saying? Do you
understand that we only need to have a few cans out at one time and it is to be
played with at the table, not under or around it?”
He stares.
“Ashton, you MAY answer me, now. This is not okay!”
“BUT MOM!”
“Do not but mom me, buddy.”
His arms go up towards the ceiling in defeat. He is bursting
to speak, “Your BOObie is hanging out!”
I look down and sure enough my stretched out tank top has
allowed slippage right out of the top. There she is. His behavior allows hindsight
that she was out for most of my rant
I laughed and laughed as did he. Poor kiddo. He patiently
sat listening to me go on-and-on all of the while waiting to tell me my private
body was showing.
I thanked him. I explained he did good by telling me and in
the future please tell me if I have food in my teeth, boogs in my nose or
toilet paper stuck to my clothing. He is in agreement.
Boobies. Boobies at any age bring on the giggles. Our house
is still giggling.
