So...after I had to go back to Costco to get the baby formula I forgot on Saturday, the husband and I took the boys to Barnes and Noble. They love it there -- both of them. The Snugglebear liked it too but she wanted to chew on everything (I keep telling her she can't read by diffusion -- inner science geek showing -- but she doesn't listen). First we hit the Lego table, then we play with the Thomas trains and train table, and then we start reading books.
The Grumpybutt LOVES reading. He always has. I can remember when 4ft of Fun was only 2ft and he would never sit still for an entire book. There was always too much type per page and I learned how to speed read and hit the highlights before he could turn the page. The Grumpybutt has NEVER done that. No book is too long. No book has too many words. And he will get book after book after book for you to read for him for as long as you'll read them.
So we picked a stack of board books, the Grumpybutt and I, (that way he can't hurt them and then I have to buy them even if I don't want to) and we sat down on the stage together and started reading. A little girl wearing a pink tutu had already been following Grumpybutt around (much to his dismay cuz she kept wanting to touch him and he HATES that and her skirt kept touching him when she stood near him and he really can't stand that either -- he has OCD issues) so she came to the stage too to see what he was doing with her mom in tow. The mother watched Grumpybutt and I read book after book, sometimes her little girl watching (I'm not Grumpybutt. I don't mind it when other kids come sit with us and read with us), but mostly she was just trying to touch Grumpybutt's hair (apparently
his blonde silk tresses are like a moth to a flame to little girls because we run into this problem a lot).
Finally the mother asked, "How old is your little boy?"
I told her he was 2 1/2 and then politely asked how old her little girl was. I don't know, it always seems like you're supposed to when someone asks you. The little girl turned 2 that day so she wasn't that much younger.
"How long has your son sat there and read like that? Mine won't sit still for a single page let alone five books."
Cuz yes, we had read just finished the stack of books and were getting up to put them back and pick some more -- which we did -- which he sat and read but then he couldn't ignore the siren's call anymore and the allure of jumping off the stage and off the benches became too much for him and he gave in and started jumping. That kid lives for jumping off of things. LIVES FOR IT! Which in the end is going to kill me I think.
"He always has," I said proudly.
"That's amazing. You're very lucky."
Truer words were never spoke. No, I'm not proud of my kids. Not at all.
I'm also proud to announce that 4ft mastered tying his shoes yesterday. We tried in kindergarten but he just couldn't get it and would break down in tears in frustration. Nothing is worth that. So we tried again in first grade and again he was too hard on himself when he couldn't get it. We tried again yesterday. He got it on his SECOND try. The look of joy on that boy's face almost brought a tear to my eye. He was glowing in pride. He wore those shoes around the house for the rest of the day (his brand new school shoes so he doesn't get to wear them outside until Wednesday on the first day of school) and took them off right before bed, tying and untying them all evening. Then first thing this morning he put them back on and tied them again AND then he called his Nana and Papa (my mom and dad) at 6:30am to tell them he'd done it and show them (he called them on my iPad with Facetime).
And I let him because I'm evil and I'd been up since pretty much 3:30ish when Snugglebear thought she was dying of starvation and then when she was beating my face after my husband put her in bed with me. Why should I be the only one to suffer?