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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2b5qShd:
Farm Baby was really really really really two this weekend. It was An Experience. On two separate occasions when I was the nearest adult in the house and she made sounds of distress, I came to help her (one time, she was trying to put on a shirt, and had one sleeve inside-out; another time I think she was trying to connect a toy train and it wouldn’t go), and she started S C R E A M I N G that NO NO NO it couldn’t be ME it had to be MOMMY to help her, to the point that one of the times her mother came running in from outside because she genuinely thought the child had at least a broken limb. One time she was trying to put on her shoes and I asked if I could help, since she had the strap twisted, and she screamed NO and grabbed the shoes and RAN, and I said, I won’t, and walked away, and she kept running away through the house screaming. On all three occasions I just said okay and backed off, and it did nothing to lessen her distress. I’ve been trying to make a point of respecting her desires when they’re clearly stated and not something that’s going to put her in danger or destroy the house or both, because both her parents have also been trying to teach her that she’s allowed to have opinions sometimes, and she hasn’t grasped any of those distinctions at all.
Her main jam lately is running away. Just, grabbing whatever you’ve told her she can’t have, and bolting for the door, and just running outside and keeping on running until someone wrestles her down. Which is a Big Problem because the house is twenty feet from a 45-mph two-lane highway on a sharp curve, frequented mostly by enormous semi-trucks heavily laden with tons upon tons of gravel from a nearby mine. They’d cream her flat and straight-up never even notice. And she knows not to run into the road, but she’s two, she’s not that good at remembering stuff.
(Edited to add: yeah, there’s various locks and fasteners and things on the doors, but she keeps learning how to unfasten them, and at this point she can just lunge straight through the gate in the fence they installed in the yard. It slowed her down for months, but she’s figured it out now.)
So just now I hid myself in the living room as her father very sternly and heartfelt-ly explained the concept of death to her, and also instated a rule that she doesn’t get to watch TV if she runs away like that.
Currently there’s some bloodcurdling screeching coming from the bathroom where she’s being given her bath, but I actually sort of think someone might be tickling her; that could be delight. It’s impossible to tell.
I really might need to indulge myself and write some Baby!Poe kidfic, because as the earlier post I reblogged pointed out, he really embodies the TURN DOWN FOR WHAT aesthetic, and him at two would be kind of fucking intolerable and it’d be a whole new way for me to torture Kes.
*image of Shara sitting at a table across from some brand-new New Republic official, clutching a mug in both hands with a frozen-serene expression as Kes hollers something incomprehensible that includes the syllable “Poe” repeatedly in the other room*
*something crashes loudly with the distinct sound of shattering components* “So,” Shara says brightly. “You said you’re short on starfighter pilots? It turns out, you know, I think I can get away.”
Farm Baby was really really really really two this weekend. It was An Experience. On two separate occasions when I was the nearest adult in the house and she made sounds of distress, I came to help her (one time, she was trying to put on a shirt, and had one sleeve inside-out; another time I think she was trying to connect a toy train and it wouldn’t go), and she started S C R E A M I N G that NO NO NO it couldn’t be ME it had to be MOMMY to help her, to the point that one of the times her mother came running in from outside because she genuinely thought the child had at least a broken limb. One time she was trying to put on her shoes and I asked if I could help, since she had the strap twisted, and she screamed NO and grabbed the shoes and RAN, and I said, I won’t, and walked away, and she kept running away through the house screaming. On all three occasions I just said okay and backed off, and it did nothing to lessen her distress. I’ve been trying to make a point of respecting her desires when they’re clearly stated and not something that’s going to put her in danger or destroy the house or both, because both her parents have also been trying to teach her that she’s allowed to have opinions sometimes, and she hasn’t grasped any of those distinctions at all.
Her main jam lately is running away. Just, grabbing whatever you’ve told her she can’t have, and bolting for the door, and just running outside and keeping on running until someone wrestles her down. Which is a Big Problem because the house is twenty feet from a 45-mph two-lane highway on a sharp curve, frequented mostly by enormous semi-trucks heavily laden with tons upon tons of gravel from a nearby mine. They’d cream her flat and straight-up never even notice. And she knows not to run into the road, but she’s two, she’s not that good at remembering stuff.
(Edited to add: yeah, there’s various locks and fasteners and things on the doors, but she keeps learning how to unfasten them, and at this point she can just lunge straight through the gate in the fence they installed in the yard. It slowed her down for months, but she’s figured it out now.)
So just now I hid myself in the living room as her father very sternly and heartfelt-ly explained the concept of death to her, and also instated a rule that she doesn’t get to watch TV if she runs away like that.
Currently there’s some bloodcurdling screeching coming from the bathroom where she’s being given her bath, but I actually sort of think someone might be tickling her; that could be delight. It’s impossible to tell.
I really might need to indulge myself and write some Baby!Poe kidfic, because as the earlier post I reblogged pointed out, he really embodies the TURN DOWN FOR WHAT aesthetic, and him at two would be kind of fucking intolerable and it’d be a whole new way for me to torture Kes.
*image of Shara sitting at a table across from some brand-new New Republic official, clutching a mug in both hands with a frozen-serene expression as Kes hollers something incomprehensible that includes the syllable “Poe” repeatedly in the other room*
*something crashes loudly with the distinct sound of shattering components* “So,” Shara says brightly. “You said you’re short on starfighter pilots? It turns out, you know, I think I can get away.”
