Three About Thatcher

I feel a tremendous satisfaction watching my son play with his Daddy. Even as I have to restrain myself from forcing Daddy to act more like Mommy. As the weather gets crappier we start to allow outside play to creep inside. When I say we I mostly mean Daddy. Not that I blame him,  Thatcher is three years old and endless energy whether the weather allows it to happen outside or not. So, Tim was tossing a ball back and forth with Thatch. Thatch would grab the ball and then fling it wildly at his daddy, laughing at how difficult Daddy pretended it was to catch it. Then Tim would carefully, gently toss the ball in a soft slow arc toward Thatcher. Thatcher’s not so great at catching yet unless you remind him to make his arms a basket and manage to drop the ball directly into the waiting bowl. Daddy doesn’t know this. So the ball bounced off Thatcher’s chubby toddler fingers with the hands in prayer pose. Then the next time it bounced right off his adorable head! “You’re ruining the game, Daddy!” Thatcher would admonish him loudly and angrily. “ME!” Tim responded laughing “You’re the one not catching it!” It’s a mystery to me - this male bonding.

*****


Yesterday I was flat ironing my hair in the bathroom while Thatcher enthusiastically attempted to be my assistant. “I just want to help you my mom!” he assured me as I shooed him away from the hot appliance. So I allowed him to stand on his stool and ask me questions while I pulled my hair through the straightening device.  We made it about three minutes until I had to kick him out before he burned himself or I had to answer “YES, HOT ENOUGH TO BURN YOU!” one more time.

He reluctantly backed out of the bathroom and then our eyes met and he smirked and said “Mommy. You look fat. You’re FAAAT.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say!” I said, surprised and wondering where the hell he heard that. “And it isn’t even true.”  I mean seriously people. I’d like it if when my children are insulting someone they do it right.

“You’re FAT.” he tried again.

“Thatcher. People come in all different sizes. It’s not okay to make anyone feel bad about what size they are.”

“That man at the party was fat.”

“What are you talking about? What man?”   Dear gawd did he SAY that to someone? What party?

“You’re fat!” he tried a final time.

“I’m not fat, Thatcher.”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to say I’m not fat, I can still walk around!”

“Where did you hear that!?!” I hollered but he was already in another room kicking something.


*****

The alarm on my phone went off after already hitting snooze three times today. I squinted at the clock on the dresser and reluctantly swung my legs over the edge of the bed and began pulling the clothes I’d left in a puddle there only a few hours before.

“Are you getting up, Mommy?” Thatch asked enthusiastically “Good job Mommy! Good job!”

He’s such a sweetheart. And so early. 

October 16, 2009