Today was Sophie’s last day of Vacation Bible School (a two-and-a-half hour morning stint each day this week). She didn’t seem to enjoy it nearly as much this year. Perhaps part of the issue is that she is bone, dead, fucking-arse tired from all the extra kids we’ve been having around the house. As we sat with our lunch and listened to the songs (annoying, tinny-sounding contemporary tunes played from a small CD deck and given insufficient volume for the shy children to sing along to) she rubs her head against me and sucks her thumb. I stroke her back through her little japanese-patterned cotton dress. Nels ruthlessly hunts down every stray M&M on snack plates and succeeds in winning them by a flirtatious smile.
Changes for The Boy, too: he had his first night in his “big boy” bed. For spatial reasons (my children share a room), it isn’t a standard-sized bed, but a toddler one. His bed is the cutest damn thing ever. And a sight easier to lower a child onto.
Thus ends our baby stage of life. Or so it seems now. The crib remains in a corner of my living room as I have not yet discovered a discipline technique for Nels better than picking him up and putting him in a time-out (he can climb out of his prison, but never does – cowed as he is by my Goddess-like power). My children sleep side-by-side with the occasional midnight wakeup and request for “Milk, please!”