A morning home alone with the Littlest One.
It is always an interesting time, which could see me being left to my own devices and, subsequently, wandering around not sure what to do with myself.
Alternatively, I could risk sitting and doing something, only to have him climbing on me, driving LEGO trucks over my face, squishing my boobs and generally demanding my undivided attention.
Thus, I rarely place anything on my To Do List for these moments for I face the end of the day feeling useless and inadequate not having achieved anything. It’s almost as though he can see my List and will do his best to prevent me from addressing anything on it.
The downside is, of course, those rare moments I am afforded time to tend to this List, I have nothing to go by and find myself lost.
He has also Mastered the Arts of using my being distracted to get things he wants, and to revert to asking his brothers for things he wants when I tell him “no”.
Going way beyond the exploiting his parents and playing them off against each other, he has drawn an older sibling in. If the “Fine then, I’ll as Dad” doesn’t go his way, he stomps off, drops his bottom lip and confides in his oldest brother about the horribleness of his parents. Older Brother, not only a source of comfort but a valuable ally in such circumstances, relents and gets him the drink of milk/DVD/lolly/other forbidden item on his behalf.
I did try to leave the house late in the morning, but he decided that 10.07 was a good time for lunch.
Lunches are generally easy. Well, once I actually worked out what he wanted and remembered to do that each lunch time, we were good.
A slice of bread, spread with peanut butter and cut into little triangles. Just one slice, mind. No lid. Crusts on. Cut into four triangles.
He was even okay with unequal sized triangles.
Same again today, for a morning tea-timed lunch.
Only, the order was changed a little.
“Cut it like Monkey Boy does,” he informs me.
“Okay. How would that be?” I ask.
“He just cuts it very straight, like this,” he shows me, using his hand in a chopping/slicing/reciting the AusLan alphabet motion.
So, I just cut it into little squares. It was the best interpretation I could come up with.
“No,” he tells me. “Not like that.”
“Just eat it,” I say.
He does, but he can’t let go of my incompetence and obvious lack of concern about the importance of such sandwich cutting abhorrence.
“No. He just cut it a little bit bigger. He cut like this,” holding his hands up, palms facing, a few inches apart. “About this big. He does it like in the shape of Jared’s fish tank!”
I’m more confused than earlier.
Jared is a hermit crab.
He doesn’t own a fish tank, either.
When proper lunchtime rolled around I was presented with yet another challenge that required much of my brain to decipher.
A bread. Wif jam on it. Wif two bits wif jam in the middle. Wif cheese on top. NO, NOT IN DERE ON TOP!
I think I got it.
I constructed it.
I got asked if “it can be a circle”.
I’m not sure which “it” he wanted circular. Whatever. The answer was no. Circle is not an option in bread based foods in this house.
He was happy. I must have got it right.
He does it better, anyway, apparently.