I just caught Brontë shaking salt on her forearm and then eating it. Who has been doing tequila shots in front of my baby?Speaking of altering one’s consciousness, is it wrong that I like to spin my toddler in circles just to watch her run diagonally?
She seems to enjoy it, running up and begging me to “make her dizzy” again. Bridget likes it too. They take turns having me whip them around in circles until they’re set down to stumble and trip. It amuses me and entertains them, so I figure we’ve got a win-win situation here.
Playing with them like this reminds me of the weird breathing games my friends and I used to play in elementary school. We would crouch down and hyperventilate about twenty times before standing up really fast and exhaling with our mouths closed until we felt lightheaded.
Anyone else do that crap? I won’t be teaching it to the kiddos, of course, because it’s a little dangerous. One time a friend of mine passed out and smacked her head on the floor. She was fine, apart from a knot on her head, but the incident reminded us that our little breathing games weren’t entirely without risk.
Not that it stopped us, of course. It’s just a matter of time before my kids figure this out on their own. Kids are reckless.
And they like to have fun. Ages three and four are entertaining. If my kids are any indication, age three + means getting past the daily tantrums and power struggles of two-year-olds to enter extreme silliness territory.
Brontë has forgotten all about screaming “NO” all the time and now prefers playing whimsical games. Her boundless imagination is set afire with all of the world’s absurd possibilities. Like last week, when she decided ducks should teach her to swim.
This week is all about the comedy aggravation of dad. She started insisting, for example, that she actually has TWO daddies.
This peaked John’s interest.
“You have two daddies?” he asked her, a little too casually. “Who is your other daddy?”
She said she would tell him if he gave her salami, which totally worked. She watched him dig into the meat & cheese drawer of our fridge before coming back to hand her a wad of sliced salami in exchange for more info.
Brontë shoved a couple of slices in her mouth and chewed while glancing around the room. She bunched up her eyebrows in thought.
“Well dad,” she started, “His name is Mr. Keyhat.”I’m guessing these were the first two objects she’d seen in the room.
“He wears a big black hat and has a long black mustache,” she continued.
John nodded, looking relieved. This girl shows remarkable and frightening cunning. She clearly needs excellent guidance, lest she end up running a dark empire one day.
Later, Mr. Keyhat stopped by in his top hat and cape, twirling his mustache. I told him to quit visiting because he’s confusing the children.