Sunday's Helper
Most of my Sunday was spent catching up on all the domestic things I ignored last week. We piled dishes into and out of the dishwasher. Laundry was folded, sorted, and well started again. Groceries were purchased, lawn mowed, and the house tidied enough to be livable again.
All this was well and good--and even made me feel a bit more balanced. Which is probably the best part of these catch-up-on-house-stuff Sundays. And that feeling even floated into the not-so-normal-off-the-beaten-path activities. We painted a bookshelf and then distressed it to look beaten up and old. Re-potted some plants my son has taken a liking to planting. All while the little guy tagged along with us and helped. Which--for anyone that is used to an infant or young toddler around--is odd. But in a good way.
When my kiddo was a baby--like early, early baby--I took him everywhere. Still partook in some normal activities and still went out on occasion and took the little guy with me. He slept. And I just had to find a corner somewhere to nurse him. It was nothing short of easy (except for the total lack of sleep thing. And a few nosy patrons who gave to the evil eye at nursing). And I managed well. Well enough to still feel myself anyway.
Then he started growing and developing. And crying when life didn't go his way. And I started pulling away from social activities. Just a bit anyway, so I could feel sane. And not drag a screaming baby everywhere--or to those places that would frown on such antics. When he became mobile it got worse. So again, I stuck to known territory and good ole home base.
Cleaning and all things domestic were still possible and done on just as an irregular pace as they are now. But for the most part the kiddo wasn't involved. He could barely keep his attention on me for more than 30-seconds, how could I manage to get him to help? At least that is what I thought he could do--all the parenting magazines said so. Even other moms, mom's of older children said so too. But I realized soon enough in the game--he was too young to even comprehend what it was I did all day to keep the house livable. And it brought me down. Had I turned into June Cleaver? I was far from a domestic goddess--and even further from enjoying any of the things called cooking and cleaning. Especially alone.
But that all changed this weekend. Well a few weekends ago actually--but THIS weekend I really noticed it. The kiddo had changed. He volunteered to help me cook breakfast. We cleaned up the table together. He offered to put the laundry in the washer with me. Potting plants was fun as he pulled his special gardening tools from his pail and we got started with barely a bat of an eye. And boy did he help paint HIS bookshelf.
What happened to my child? The kid that when given any new activity would likely throw a utensil of some kind at me, laugh, and then run off to do what HE wanted to do? Or the kid that when I asked to stay in the yard just offered me a fleeting glance and continued on his trudge toward the back alley? Who took the little playing-only creature and replaced him with this?
This helpful--almost too grown up--child syndrome was foreign to me... but absolutely WONDERFUL. And when I think about it, a moment I've waited for a lot of his early life. A time when he could take care of himself. A time when mom wasn't just cleaning up his dropped toys, dirty diapers, and vomit--but participating in activities that we could enjoy together.
Granted he's three. He's no where near being able to cook, clean, bath, and do ALL things for himself--I'm not that incompetent. But the kid can play upstairs with little incident and mom doing her own thing. AND he can help me set the dinner table, stir some dinner helpings, and not be totally unable to participate in some things grown-up. Which means he is growing up. And well, I am ready to let him. At least a little bit. An itsy, bitsy bit. So that I can enjoy his company that little bit longer.
All this was well and good--and even made me feel a bit more balanced. Which is probably the best part of these catch-up-on-house-stuff Sundays. And that feeling even floated into the not-so-normal-off-the-beaten-path activities. We painted a bookshelf and then distressed it to look beaten up and old. Re-potted some plants my son has taken a liking to planting. All while the little guy tagged along with us and helped. Which--for anyone that is used to an infant or young toddler around--is odd. But in a good way.
When my kiddo was a baby--like early, early baby--I took him everywhere. Still partook in some normal activities and still went out on occasion and took the little guy with me. He slept. And I just had to find a corner somewhere to nurse him. It was nothing short of easy (except for the total lack of sleep thing. And a few nosy patrons who gave to the evil eye at nursing). And I managed well. Well enough to still feel myself anyway.
Then he started growing and developing. And crying when life didn't go his way. And I started pulling away from social activities. Just a bit anyway, so I could feel sane. And not drag a screaming baby everywhere--or to those places that would frown on such antics. When he became mobile it got worse. So again, I stuck to known territory and good ole home base.
Cleaning and all things domestic were still possible and done on just as an irregular pace as they are now. But for the most part the kiddo wasn't involved. He could barely keep his attention on me for more than 30-seconds, how could I manage to get him to help? At least that is what I thought he could do--all the parenting magazines said so. Even other moms, mom's of older children said so too. But I realized soon enough in the game--he was too young to even comprehend what it was I did all day to keep the house livable. And it brought me down. Had I turned into June Cleaver? I was far from a domestic goddess--and even further from enjoying any of the things called cooking and cleaning. Especially alone.
But that all changed this weekend. Well a few weekends ago actually--but THIS weekend I really noticed it. The kiddo had changed. He volunteered to help me cook breakfast. We cleaned up the table together. He offered to put the laundry in the washer with me. Potting plants was fun as he pulled his special gardening tools from his pail and we got started with barely a bat of an eye. And boy did he help paint HIS bookshelf.
What happened to my child? The kid that when given any new activity would likely throw a utensil of some kind at me, laugh, and then run off to do what HE wanted to do? Or the kid that when I asked to stay in the yard just offered me a fleeting glance and continued on his trudge toward the back alley? Who took the little playing-only creature and replaced him with this?
This helpful--almost too grown up--child syndrome was foreign to me... but absolutely WONDERFUL. And when I think about it, a moment I've waited for a lot of his early life. A time when he could take care of himself. A time when mom wasn't just cleaning up his dropped toys, dirty diapers, and vomit--but participating in activities that we could enjoy together.
Granted he's three. He's no where near being able to cook, clean, bath, and do ALL things for himself--I'm not that incompetent. But the kid can play upstairs with little incident and mom doing her own thing. AND he can help me set the dinner table, stir some dinner helpings, and not be totally unable to participate in some things grown-up. Which means he is growing up. And well, I am ready to let him. At least a little bit. An itsy, bitsy bit. So that I can enjoy his company that little bit longer.
