My son took off his mittens and buried them in the snow and now we can't find them. I'm having trouble finding the humor in this, though I know it's there somewhere.
He also buried his Little People fireman, and he seems to think that loss is much more traumatic than his mittens.
He's going to be three in a few weeks, I really can't believe it. He's lengthened out recently, and suddenly he looks like a little boy, so tall and big and grown. He's not a toddler any more. He speaks so completely and well, except when he's screaming, of course; a thing we're still struggling with.
And he is all boy. Before I had kids I thought gender differentiations were more socially constructed than I now believe. Certainly much is, but so much is clearly instinct; it's weird to me. As Mitch and I were watching him toronado through the family room the other day, Mitch commented that Clark, as a little boy, has to practice for killing the big animal. So funny! And if one is indeed going to hunt big animals, he needs to be good at running and climbing and throwing things. Of course, the girls need to practice caring for the babies. I guess I believed until puberty hormones were absent in kids. Certainly and clearly not the case.
As for the caring of babies, Frances has now constructed a miniature house in our dining room, complete with kitchen, playroom, dining room, and bedroom (which is more like a dorm, baby beds lined up in a pretty row). She's never done this before, not to such lengths. And she's scared to death Clark is going to wreck it, not an unfounded fear.
Finally, I will say it: I'm ready for winter to be done. I'm ready for us to be able to step outside barefoot. I've been sick so long I don't remember what it's like to be well. And taking care of kids isn't the easiest thing when you've got no energy. Back to bed for me.