November 28, 2011
Yesterday afternoon, I asked each of my children to generate a list of things that they want for Christmas.
The list-making (which took, miraculously and wonderously, a whole 30 minutes) served no other purpose than to keep them busy and entertained, as I have learned from experience that the lists they produce are utterly useless and not connected to reality.
This year, for example, 90% of the things on Kellen's list are woodland animals:
"Do you mean a Webkin deer?" I asked, pointing to the second item from the bottom.
He looked at me like I was nuts. "What would I do with a Webkin deer?" he scoffed.
I'm slightly afraid to know what he would do with a real deer.
Still, all of the nonsense on my boys' lists doesn't compare with what is at the end of Camber's. She circled her top choice, just to make sure that I wouldn't miss it.
"That's not going to happen," I told her flat out. "No more babies at our house."
She looked at me knowingly. "You can't say that. You don't get to decide."
I cocked my head. "What do you mean?"
"Babies come when they want to come."
Later that day, I called my friend in Texas who has two girls, ages 10 and 12.
"We've been over this many times in detail," I hissed. "But it's not getting through."
She suggested several age-appropriate books on the human anatomy and changing bodies.
Want to guess what my daughter is getting for Christmas?
Sorry for the infrequent postings as of late. For the past several weeks, I've been working on an academic writing project that has been consuming my life. Thanks for your patience and understanding!