Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Water Fight At the Infant Development Program

We had a bit of a water fight at our playgroup this week.

On Mondays we attended the Infant Development Playgroup for children age three and under. We got to the group a little early this week. With the room to himself, as soon as I wrestled his coat off of him, Little Man was whipping around the room. He pulled toys off shelves, went head first down the slide, gorged himself on Play-doh ("Not in your mouth, right Momma?") and basically whirled around like the Road Runner on speed.

It didn't help that he was the only child (or maybe it did, as there was no poor babe to get stepped on or bowled over in his rampage). Eventually I was able to catch him and play quietly for a few minutes, but he was entirely overstimulated and overactive.

After a few minutes two other kids arrived, and he settled down a little bit and played nicely. Until the water table came out.

I saw the development worker bring the sink into the carpeted room and thought to myself "No way, it's got to be a sand table. Or it'll be filled with toys, but not water. That's just insane."

I actually said aloud: "Um, I don't think that's a very good idea." but she smiled and shushed me and proceeded to fill the sink with water and toys and invite the three toddlers over to get wet.

The little girls played nicely. My son did not. He loves water so much that we've postponed toilet training. Every time we put him on the potty he tries to get INTO the toilet for a "fun bath, momma!". There was no way a sink full of water and toys suspended next to a carpeted floor was going to end well.

It didn't. Little Man pushed one girl out of the way, and distracted the other by lobbing a ball at her head. He then proceeded to climb up the sink and into the basin. "Oh, no, we stand NEXT to the sink, dear. Out you get." Little Man just looked at her as if to say "Like h*@@! we do!" and proceeded to STAND in the sink.

"Down, down! Out you get!" said the frantic development worker. I warned her, and was taking no part in removing my splashing toddler from the sink. I was NOT going to get wet just because SHE ignored my warning.

So Little Man obeyed. He got down -- actually, he SAT down in the sink. So now we had two wet feet, one wet bum, and one drenched infant development worker.

The sink disappeared soon after. I think I'll dress him in his swim trunks and googles and prep him to ask for "more water table" at the next playgroup session.

On Our Way to M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E

Just getting to Disneyland was definitely an experience. We packed the car at 4:30 and were on the road by 5am. Our son (who normally sleeps soundly til 7:30 or so) was utterly confused when we ripped him from his sleep, threw him into a clean change of clothes, and shoved a bottle into his mouth as we walked out the door.

When I buckled him into his carseat I noticed Little Man's hair was in full-out riot mode. Some curls were going south while others were headed north. Most were just standing on end demanding attention. But I was not about to invoke The Rage, so my husband and I, our son, and his beastly hair, headed off the airport.

We made one important stop to pick up my husband's younger brothers. They were standing in the dark at the end of the driveway. The fourteen year old was sleeping standing up, held up only by the gentle breeze and sheer teenage will. The twenty year old was grinning broadly enough to illuminate a city block, but, he, too, looked ready to pass out from exhaustion.

Somehow the five of us made our way to the airport, and had an uneventful trip through check-in and security. I was actually a little annoyed at the lack of trouble we experienced.

I'm no masochist, but I expected a question from somebody along the way. No one questioned why the quintet was travelling together, or who was the legal parent of the fourteen year old. Although I am only 13 years older than him and a mere SEVEN and a half years older than the twenty year old, I cannot count how many times people referred to the boys as "your sons". Even the customs officials, who held the passports with "Mom's" birth year as 1981 and "son's" birth year as 1989 didn't seem to notice.

Assumed old age aside, it was a great journey south. All our luggage arrived, and our little guy slept intermittantly throughout the trip.

That might explain why he poked me in the eye at 11pm and demanded "more fiyerworks, Momma", but that's another story....