. . . is a full-fledged kindergartener.
He gets homework.
He loves going on the slide during recess.
And his teacher tells me he is a hard worker.
The other day, I laid down on the floor for a little nap. He came into the room. “Mom is taking a nap,” he said. Loudly.
“Set a timer!” (Also loudly.)
“Okay, okay.” I was not speaking loudly. I was mumbling. I took out my cell phone and set the timer for ten minutes.
“Okay, set the timer. Ten more minutes!”
I slipped in and out of the fog.
“Eight more minutes!”
Occasionally, one of these updates would be punctuated by a shove to my head. (This is where I update my nap post to include the phrases “quiet place” and “a door that locks.”)
Truly, though, Colby’s ability to understand timers is a blessing. It makes turning off the iPad much easier. I’ll say, “Time to go to bed!”
And he’ll say, “No bed! Just one more minute! Set timer!”
So I’ll set the timer, and he’ll watch it count down instead of playing his game, and then he’ll switch the iPad off as soon as the timer reaches zero.
At this point in our day, he’ll run upstairs into my room, saying, “Colby sleep on Mom’s bed.”
“No way! You’re sleeping in your own bed!”
“Sleep in tent?”
“Okay. Go get in the tent.”
He hasn’t actually slept in his own bed for like a year. There’s a little tent set up in his room. Our neighbors gave it to us, along with a big bag of plastic balls: mini ball pit! I put the balls away long ago, and he has his blankets, pillows, and dolphins piled up in there.
He crawls in and I bring his toothbrush and brush his teeth. (This sometimes includes a toothbrushing song, unless he says, “No songs.” Then I try and get all available surfaces cleaned before he bites the toothbrush and I have to yank his head around until he lets go.) Sometimes I floss his teeth with a flosser, and we count to 18, one for each space I dig into. If we don’t floss, then he says, “Frosting tomorrow. Frosting later.”
Then he says prayers, which lately he has taken into his head to say as fast as possible. I have to stop him before he says “Amen” by saying, “And please bless . . . ”
“Please bless Grandma in the nameofJesusChristAmen.”
Then I kiss him (because he is completely kissable at all times) and he wipes it off. So I kiss him again, somewhere else, and he wipes it off. If I don’t say, “Hey!” in a grouchy, offended voice, he reminds me.
So I kiss, he wipes, I “Hey!”, and he laughs until I’ve kissed every crazy place I can think of.
Then he puts on his back pack. (This is new since starting school this year.) Sometimes he has to run to my room and look at himself in my full-length mirror. He looks at himself with a kind of a trace of a smile. Then he’ll turn to try and look at his back pack while it’s on his back. First one way, then the other. When he’s satisfied it’s the most perfect back pack in the world (or whatever it is he’s looking for in the mirror), we head back to the tent to go to sleep . . .
. . . after we read the bus book. “School Bus, by Donald Crews,” I say. By the time we get to the end, where I say, “Home again,” and then I turn the page and I wait for Colby to say, “Home again,” I have yawned a couple of times. When I yawn, Colby laughs and says, “Mom is tired.”
I have to say, “Yes, Mom is tired,” or he’ll just keep saying, “Mom is tired” until I agree.
Bedtime yet? Not quite yet.
“Okay, five more songs.” When he says this, he’s laying down on his back (pack) or his side, and he reaches his hand up in the air, his five fingers spread out to show me how many.
“What song do you want first?”
“Okay, five more songs.”
“Yes, five songs. What song first.”
“Okay, Baby Mine.”
“Fast or slow?”
He changes this part up every night. He’s been on a fast kick lately, where he thinks everything is so funny when it’s fast (which, when you think about how popular The Chipmunks are, must be a kid thing), but he had me sing this slowly last night.
I yawned about six times. “Yes, Mom is tired. Mom is always tired.”
The latest favorites for night songs are “Baby Mine,” “Good Night” (ala Beatles), “Search, Ponder, and Pray,” “Keep the Commandments,” and “If the Savior Stood Beside Me.” He ticks each song off on one of his cute little fingers, reminding me of the count when each finishes. “Just three more songs. Okay, three more songs.”
And then, at last, he goes to sleep.
Even though I say, “At last,” I love it. He is such a sweet boy.
Speaking of being a sweet boy, and of Primary songs, yesterday was the Primary program in our ward. He didn’t stand up for many of the songs, although I did see his little fingers making the rain come tumbling down when they were singing, “The Wise Man and the Foolish Man.”
Eden was helping Colby with his “part,” the time when each child says something in the microphone. He was the very last child to go. This was good, because then he had a chance to see all the other kids doing it. It was also bad, because by the time it was his turn, he was D-O-N-E. (Although frankly, he was probably done by the first song.) Eden went down from her spot on the back row to where Colby was sitting. She bent down and was talking to him. The congregation waited. She kept trying to convince him to get up and say his part. It felt like a long silence, though it was probably only a minute.
I saw her turn around and crouch, and I knew Colby must have requested a “hug for back.” She took him up to the microphone piggy back, and then said into the microphone, “Colby’s goal for this year was to choose the right.” In her hand she held up the CTR shield that Colby had written CTR on earlier this year. Colby had his arms around her neck and his head resting on her back.
And he was smiling.