And yet this is where we are. Just the four of us. Me, Erin, Oliver, and a cat who now constantly wears the expression "I guess this is my life now."
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| Some of us are dealing with the quarantine better than others |
Of course, I don't mean to make light of what anyone else is going through. All things considered, we have it pretty good, and I know that. We all like each other, more or less, and we're all in relatively good health, at least for the moment. But...look. All things are relative. And I contend that I'm allowed to be annoyed by how loud it is here. There's just no reason for it. Say foo bah (fruit bar) once, kid, and then give me a few beats to fetch one. The world's not going to end if you can't cram one of your blueberry paste biscuits into your jabbering trap in the next half-second. Put things in perspective, please. People are dying. You'll get your snack.
On the upside, ever since Oliver has started staying home from day care, we've all gotten to know him much better. For example, we now know that he likes to get high. Literally. He has a toy car, but it's basically just a step-stool on wheels (which is as safe as it sounds). He's obsessed with ladders. He'll climb up on boxes, toy bins, bookshelves...anything in order to feel a few inches taller. He'd scale the kitchen wall with suction cups if he had access. He's always pointing at the ceiling and talking about the attic. Like he even knows anything about it. Whatever forbidden paradise you're imagining is up there, child, that ain't it. Hope you like blown insulation and possum babies.
Like us, he's getting massively stir crazy. We've had to start spelling the word "walk," like he's a dog, because if we utter the word out loud, he's at the back door in seconds, leash in his mouth. Calm down. We don't have an actual leash for him. It's more of a restraining tether. Anyway, he hears the word and he goes nuts. He has this red wagon that his Goppie got for him, and it's pretty sweet. It's a double-seater with buckles, it has a cloth roof, and there are places to put both your sippy cup and your plastic bag full of Goldfish. We go for daily walks around the neighborhood, keeping the same precautionary six feet of distance from strangers that we routinely kept before the pandemic, and every thirty or so steps he'll demand a few more fish, or ask me to help him get his Sesame Street music player working again. I mean...maybe if you stop hitting "eject." There are only three buttons. It isn't hard. He likes to say hi to this one neighbor dog who, without fail, frightens me to death whenever he starts barking, even when I know it's coming. Oliver has no idea the thing would rip him to pieces if given the chance, however, so he just laughs and says "daw" jovially. It's a pretty good metaphor for life, if you think about it.
Surprisingly, he still hasn't achieved peak cuteness. We keep thinking the curve will flatten, if you will, but his damn laugh just keeps getting more and more infectious. And he has a cute little voice that makes the silly shit he says even cuter. Like "un mo" (one more). Whenever he wants more of something, which is generally the case with everything other than vegetables, he holds one finger against the side of his nose and, knowing full well that no amount will ever be enough, says "un mo pitcha" (one more picture) or "un mo cacka" (one more cracker) or "un mo mattah" (one more deep tissue neck massage). We give in until we feel we shouldn't any longer, at which point he freaks the hell out. But even when he's hitting his dresser in anger, it's still kind of cute, in an "it's adorable that you think that's going to work on us" sort of way. He's also still very small, and miniatures of anything are always cute.
He is, of course, testing boundaries, which is sending our already record-high stress levels soaring even higher. If we tell him not to do something, he's pretty much guaranteed to do it, only now he looks at us while he's doing it, asking with his eyes, "Yeah...so what are you going to do about it?" He knows that when he's been bad he has to stand in the corner and have a discussion with us about what he did - sometimes he even preemptively goes to the corner on his own - but he hardly uses the time to do any serious self-reflection, as is our hope. He mostly takes opportunity of the down time to notice and point at things on the opposite wall, or to start singing some Elmo song. When we inevitably get upset that he isn't being contemplative, he finds that hilarious, and laughs right in our faces. It sometimes feels like we're boarding with an internet troll.
So yeah, it's trying, to say the least. But we have plenty of great moments, too. Like today, when he and I were lying on our backs on my bed, repeatedly throwing his Buzz Lightyear plush doll at the ceiling. We shared a hearty guffaw at that. And the other day, when he wore me down and got me to play some Toy Story for him that I probably shouldn't be letting him watch. But he cuddled with me on the couch, and didn't make a sound or go running off anywhere for like more than five minutes, so it was basically heaven.
Surprisingly, he still hasn't achieved peak cuteness. We keep thinking the curve will flatten, if you will, but his damn laugh just keeps getting more and more infectious. And he has a cute little voice that makes the silly shit he says even cuter. Like "un mo" (one more). Whenever he wants more of something, which is generally the case with everything other than vegetables, he holds one finger against the side of his nose and, knowing full well that no amount will ever be enough, says "un mo pitcha" (one more picture) or "un mo cacka" (one more cracker) or "un mo mattah" (one more deep tissue neck massage). We give in until we feel we shouldn't any longer, at which point he freaks the hell out. But even when he's hitting his dresser in anger, it's still kind of cute, in an "it's adorable that you think that's going to work on us" sort of way. He's also still very small, and miniatures of anything are always cute.
He is, of course, testing boundaries, which is sending our already record-high stress levels soaring even higher. If we tell him not to do something, he's pretty much guaranteed to do it, only now he looks at us while he's doing it, asking with his eyes, "Yeah...so what are you going to do about it?" He knows that when he's been bad he has to stand in the corner and have a discussion with us about what he did - sometimes he even preemptively goes to the corner on his own - but he hardly uses the time to do any serious self-reflection, as is our hope. He mostly takes opportunity of the down time to notice and point at things on the opposite wall, or to start singing some Elmo song. When we inevitably get upset that he isn't being contemplative, he finds that hilarious, and laughs right in our faces. It sometimes feels like we're boarding with an internet troll.
So yeah, it's trying, to say the least. But we have plenty of great moments, too. Like today, when he and I were lying on our backs on my bed, repeatedly throwing his Buzz Lightyear plush doll at the ceiling. We shared a hearty guffaw at that. And the other day, when he wore me down and got me to play some Toy Story for him that I probably shouldn't be letting him watch. But he cuddled with me on the couch, and didn't make a sound or go running off anywhere for like more than five minutes, so it was basically heaven.
