So after our Target shop this past weekend, I take Tau into a shoe store in the same plaza. Him still belted into the Target cart because it’s better than having him run up and down the aisles, pulling boxes off the shelves yelling, “Weeee! Weeee!”
I’m looking for a pair of black slides to replace my favorite shoes that died recently. That and another pair of sandals for the boy because he only has one pair that fits right now and it’s still 95 degrees most days, so definitely not socks-and-shoes weather.
No luck in the womens’ aisle and as I turn to head to the kids’ section, I smell something very familiar. And there are no other toddlers around.
Lowering my head to his, I whisper quietly as I can, “Pssst! Tau … did you do a stinky poo?”
Crinkling up his nose, pressing it to mine, he whispers quietly so no one can hear, “Jaaaa!”
And then, heading out to daycare this past Monday, I’m struggling to get him into his car seat. I’d parked too close to the garage wall on his side, so he had to clamber in on the other side — over my gym bag and the knot of re-usable shopping bags and the tall pack of diapers we were taking to daycare — his rubbery sandals catching on the upholstery as he tried to maneuver and contort himself into his seat.
Eventually, out of sheer frustration, I climb in after him, over the gym bag and the re-usable shopping bags and the pack of diapers and try, in the small space of the back of my car, to turn this long-bodied child of mine around and into his seat. His elbows and knees jutting into my neck and chest, as my jeans ride down at the back, underwear probably showing for our trendy childless neighbors, who happened to be reversing out of their garage at the same time.
“Uh!” Finally! His butt slips into the right position and I reach over to do click-click, which is what he calls clipping in the harness on his car seat.
As I snap in the last clip, he grins up at me and cheers, “Ta-daa!”