My kids are growing up.
Widget is big enough to play board games now, and our afternoons are filled with cute little cries of “Sorry!” and “I’m going to send you home!” He counts the spaces out himself, and he’s learning to weigh which piece to move for the best outcome — a key skill that he’ll need for future decision making.
Little Bear is learning to count. For six months, he’s been avidly “counting” using his favorite two numbers. He points to a series of items and very seriously and solemnly counts, “6, 1, 6, 1, 6, 1.” Now his brain is ready to translate that into real numbers. We’ve been counting along with him, and just two days ago he finally did it. He pointed at a toy with spots on it and counted, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.” Well, there were only 10, but I figure that’s close enough. I mean, he’s been doing “3, 2, 1, blast off!” with his toy rockets for months, but that’s not counting, is it? It’s more of a celebration.
Tonight we’re starting a new book of fairy tales, a book that I loved to pieces when I was a child. (Really to pieces. It’s barely bound anymore.) This will be their first exposure to some of the classics that have been so Disney-fied in our world, but told in the old-fashioned ways. I’ve got Grimm’s book to start as well, and I think we’re ready.
But still, I’m hesitant to start any story that begins “After their mother died….”
I mean, how do I explain that to my kids? I can’t really say, “Oh, but she was very sick,” because I was very sick. I can’t just say, “That will never happen to YOUR mom,” because it might. And that’s not something I want to talk about when I’m well.
And do I really want to talk about wicked stepsisters?
Ugh. I was so looking forward to the book of fairy tales.