So I’m thinking about starting a new feature on my blog. The Love/Hate. Because on a daily basis there are things that I’m reminded that I LOVE about my kids and having kids in general. And also on a daily basis, I’m reminded that there are things I … well, hate is a strong word. Extremely dislike. Have a disdain for? Detest? Extremely dislike doesn’t really have the same ring as hate. Plus, there’s no symmetry between love and extremely dislike. So I guess while I don’t actually hate these things, I’m going with hate. I was actually just going to go with a Hate feature, because I figured you all are getting tired of my sentimental, sappy droning. But then I did think of a few Love things, and I don’t want to be accused of not loving my children.
I’m planning to jot things down as they arise and post them every couple of weeks when I have more than a couple. I’m also looking forward to seeing what you guys have to add.
So, to kick things off …
- Rosy red cheeks when they wake up from a nap
- Hearing my 15-month-old say “Hi” when I walk into her room
- Watching Monkey try to hop on one foot without holding onto anything — she looks more like she’s attempting karate kicks, not to mention that the foot never actually leaves the ground
- Watching Bean react to Monkey crying by starting to cry too (the empathy cracks me up)
- Nutella face in the grocery store
- Trying to keep the three-year-old quiet while the 15-month-old naps. Seriously, STFU.
- In case you didn’t know, my bra straps are not meant for climbing me.
- Once you’re up, my bra straps are not meant to hang onto me with. Dude, I am not a horse, and my bra is not your bridle. STOP GRIPPING me. What is the deal!?
- When you’re sitting in your high chair, it is not obligatory for you to extend your foot until you touch something; namely me. Contrary to what you may think, you don’t need to kick me repeatedly throughout dinner. As a matter of fact, it is more than acceptable for your feet to just rest against the high chair. When I push you farther away, you don’t need to try harder to kick me.
- Speaking of my personal space, when you sit next to me at a restaurant, move the eff over. No, really. MOVE. OVER. Don’t move down to the other end of the bench and then ever so slowly creep back until you’re rubbing elbows with me again. I’m eating. Back off.
Any love/hate that you care to share?