There is a horrible crick in my neck and my children are sure to believe that I no longer love them due to neglect, but I have triumphed over the scrapbook. No longer will it sneer at me and taunt me with the fact that I have had two-point-five years to put it all together. It is done. There will be the initial look-through during which my family members will click their tongues and awww at the tiny baby that my son used to be, and then the book will be slid onto a shelf where it will be forgotten and begin its long life as a dust collector. Yes, it will be nice to look through when my little baby is all grown-up, but so will the photo albums that only require the pictures to be slid into plastic pockets.
My husband has declared our home to be a “potty-training free zone”. This is not because my son has finally mastered this difficult chore which requires him to stop playing for forty-five seconds and go to the toilet. But rather because he feels it to be a lost cause. Apparently he has decided to take residence in the camp of “you can’t force a child to potty train; he has to be ready”; after the first frightful week I staked my tent in the “I’ve worked too hard to quit now” camp, so I’m afraid the poor child will not only be resistant but also confused.
The first day of spring always brings with it the pleasant expectation of bright flowers, rollicking at Nana’s house, and the promise of warm sunshine. This year I am even more pleased that the cold weather is retreating: the oil company delivered heating oil today. It is possible that building a fire pit in the middle of the living room floor and burning money to keep warm way be the cheaper way to go.
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3 years ago