Too Much to Say and the Guilt

This morning I was informed by Ellie’s teacher that Ellie “more often than not does not take a nap.”

She just has too much to say, grinned Ms. K.

Ah, I see.

It’s true. Ellie narrates her life. No detail is too big or too small to tell us about: “Mommy, I want an orange. Mommy, I’m eating an orange. Mommy I want to throw my orange away.” Note: I'm not complaining here. It's wonderful to have a child who talks so much and I know the day will come (possibly) when the information isn't quite so easy to get.

The new not napping at school news explains last night, which included a lot of collapsing and “uppy” and an eventual dissolution. On the floor. Of every room in the house. Poor girl. It’s nights like those that bring the guilt. I get home too late. The kids’ day is too long. They’re exhausted when they do finally get home and all they want to do is watch television. I can’t really blame them. I often feel the same way.

And I know that guilt is a useless emotion. And the children are happy. They are thriving. And there is no "perfect" environment for children to be in, day in, day out.

We have a thirty-minutes-of-TV-at-night-rule, which I’m strict about. While I “cook” dinner (the most complicated I get most week nights is scrambled eggs) they watch Dora or Diego or something equally scintillating. And then the TV clicks off (the latest thing to fight about is who gets to turn the TV off and more nights than not, Leo turns it off first, followed by Ellie who screams, cries and says through tears: “I wanted to turn it off!” She then turns it back on and then off again).

It’s sad, really, how little I get to see them during the week, which is why these dinners are so important. As tempting as it is load the dishwasher or organize the recycling or go through the mail while the children eat, most nights I make myself sit with them. Be with them. Those tasks can wait.

Ellie still demands to sit on my lap for most meals, and I acquiesce (there’s the guilt again), though I also take off my nice work clothes before meals too, so many nights I sit at the table with the children in just an undershirt (and pants or a skirt, geesh!). They don’t seem to mind.

You never know what will be said. An example: the majority of last night’s conversation was taken up by Leo calling Ellie a “Bad dog” and Ellie’s insistence, over and over, “I’m not a bad dog!”

I rue the day I called Ruby a “Bad Dog.” For some reason that stuck with Leo. And he’s on a “Bad Dog” kick. And you don’t have to be a dog to be called one.
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In other news, it was a glorious weekend (I guess this is old news by now but I needed some way to introduce this gratuitously adorable picture).

As you can see there was outside play, without gloves or hats and we even hauled out the death trap tricycle to see if maybe, since a whole season has gone by, the tricycle is not so…scary. It’s cute but I still contend it’s a hazard. Too bad, because did I mention it’s cute and retro! But really, it is the most top-heavy little trike I have ever experienced. I’d post it on Craigslist but feel kind of guilty selling, you know, a death trap.