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Gwen world is a strange world
Oct. 11th, 2015 10:08 pmA little bit surreal, a few degrees off reality.
--
Scene: I am in the kitchen chopping veggies for soup. Gwen is in the livingroom, playing. Without any apparent cause, she rushes into the kitchen.
"Mom! Oatmeal is a type of porridge."
"Yes, it is."
"Someday, I want to have REAL porridge."
--
She often wakes up (or rather half-wakes-up) between 9pm and 11pm. She's not awake enough to know why she woke up, but usually a trip to the toilet does the trick and by the time I've walked her back to her room and tucked her in, she's nearly all the way asleep again. Tonight, as I tucked her in, she rooted around and pulled out something mixed in with her stuffed toys. "I don't want this anymore", she said, handing it to me.
It was our meat thermometer.
--
A month or two ago, she was nearly in tears walking home one day as I tried to explain her that we couldn't get a lamb, our back garden isn't big enough, they really need big fields, like the one in the forest near our house, but we couldn't keep one there because that land isn't ours...
I may have ended up promising her that if we ever buy property in Scotland we will lease out the land to a shepherd and one of the sheep can be hers.
--
She has also decided recently that she IS a lamb, namely the lamb from Mary had a Little Lamb, and, ergo, I must be Mary. For most of the last week, she's pretty consistently called me "Mary" instead of "Mom". I'll admit, it's getting a bit old.
--
Scene: I am in the kitchen chopping veggies for soup. Gwen is in the livingroom, playing. Without any apparent cause, she rushes into the kitchen.
"Mom! Oatmeal is a type of porridge."
"Yes, it is."
"Someday, I want to have REAL porridge."
--
She often wakes up (or rather half-wakes-up) between 9pm and 11pm. She's not awake enough to know why she woke up, but usually a trip to the toilet does the trick and by the time I've walked her back to her room and tucked her in, she's nearly all the way asleep again. Tonight, as I tucked her in, she rooted around and pulled out something mixed in with her stuffed toys. "I don't want this anymore", she said, handing it to me.
It was our meat thermometer.
--
A month or two ago, she was nearly in tears walking home one day as I tried to explain her that we couldn't get a lamb, our back garden isn't big enough, they really need big fields, like the one in the forest near our house, but we couldn't keep one there because that land isn't ours...
I may have ended up promising her that if we ever buy property in Scotland we will lease out the land to a shepherd and one of the sheep can be hers.
--
She has also decided recently that she IS a lamb, namely the lamb from Mary had a Little Lamb, and, ergo, I must be Mary. For most of the last week, she's pretty consistently called me "Mary" instead of "Mom". I'll admit, it's getting a bit old.
