Play Things

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? I'd better get some new tricks soon, because George is seriously throwing off my groove. Maybe it's because he's a boy? I've been doing the little girl gig for over ten years, and Hyrum has always been so phenomenally good (if a bit of a whiner). None of my previous parenting experience has prepared me for this George:

He needs practically constant motion. To be fair, he is a happy little kid, as long as you don't mess with him (Lucy! Yvy! Leave. Him. Alone!) And of course, feeding him, changing his diaper or his clothes, taking the battery out of his mouth and the paring knife out of his hand, not letting him swing from the ceiling fan pull chain or bang on the windows with a metal yard stick...all of these things constitute messing with him.


And if you mess with him, he pulls out all the stops: biting, hitting, pinching, screaming, more hitting, deliberate destruction executed while he's watching you to make sure you know he is mad at you and punishing you for your misdeeds. He truly has earned the moniker Georgezilla. {sigh} Good thing he's baby No. 6, or he might have been an only child. But I pick my battles. Last month, as a Christmas present for the George-Porge, Mark repaired our indoor swing and hung it in the dining room. It has been in perpetual motion ever since.


This particular swing has been a Gift from Heaven since Day 1. We've actually owned it for years; it merely didn't transition well from Old House to Current House. I purchased it in an act of desperation when Gabriella was my terrible-two-toddler-trial.

Back then, Gabba was obsessed with swings (she's put plenty of miles on it since Christmas, too). We didn't have a swing. But our neighbors did: right next to their pool. And we lived just around the block from the park. Whether I liked it or not, swings were a part of my life: parental-powered, constantly supervised swings.

If we were unwise enough to put her in a swing, we then had two choices: A) push her until she fell asleep or her arms went numb from holding the ropes or B) haul her back into Der Haus screaming bloody murder after a miserly half an hour of swinging. Hmmm, now that I am thinking back, there are some decided similarities between Gabba and George.

The indoor swing was my sanity. It was also a pretty popular feature. Every missionary that set foot in our house had to try some chin-ups (well, the elders, anyway). Every neighbor kid had to try it out. All the aunts and uncles had their chances. I had to make rules (1-if someone needs to get through the doorway, stop and let them pass, 2-ten minutes maximum turn time, 3-don't drag your feet on the carpeting, 4-don't twist on the swing, 5-don't swing so high your feet touch the ceiling...I am such a killjoy)

Now the swing is back in action, and it has helped. But the big kids forgot they were now big kids, and they kept sitting in the baby swing. Now that's out of circulation. So George gets to sit on laps while he swings.


...Unless, of course, there is something more interesting going on. What's more interesting than an indoor swing? How about Lucy, Eliza and Yvy emptying every single cupboard in my kitchen, piling up the pots and pans and Tupperware in the middle of the floor?

And moving into the cupboards with their pillows/blankets/stuffed animals and setting up house for the entire morning? Yup, he wanted in on that one! To be honest, Lucy didn't want him to move in, because he wouldn't keep the cupboard door shut, and there weren't enough cupboards for him to have his own.


Well, George doesn't like being told "no", because then he's pretty sure that you're messing with him. So while I was taking these pictures - and Lucy was busy smiling and not on guard - he walked right up to her, smacked her full in the face as hard as he could, and then ran back behind my legs.


After that, George got to play in the cupboards. (Just look at that adorably smug little mug!)