When we got home from Sunflower’s pre-school Christmas concert last night, Tweetie bounded up from his blanket and met me at the door with a gentle blinking face that let me know (a) he just woke up, and (b) he wanted me to pick him up. Gladly. I was extremely happy to see him feeling better, acting like his demanding, head-strong, always-hungry self, and there were treats all around, to the delight of all 3 cats.
Back to the Christmas concert. Like most events involving very young children, it was chaotic and disorganized, but when Sunflower spotted her daddy from the stage and waved with an excited smile on her face, it was wonderful. She couldn’t wait to get to him after her class sang their 2 songs so she could ask if he could hear her singing, and she climbed right onto his lap like that is the most comfortable spot in the world for her. I believe it is.
Some of the kids clearly enjoyed the spotlight, and they gestured and clowned it up with self-satisfied grins on their mischievous faces, but others just as clearly wanted no parts of it. One little boy stood on stage and cried the entire time his class was singing. I see no point to forcing a child to perform like that. He obviously didn’t want to be there; let him come down from the stage, for crying out loud. When the kids were lining up to visit Santa Claus, there was much of the same senseless thing, children crying because they didn’t want to sit on Santa’s lap, and parents with grit teeth equally adamant that yes they would, damnit, come hell or high water. WHY? When it becomes an involuntary event, how precious or lovely are those damn pictures of your unwilling child on Santa’s lap? I believe firmly in discipline, order, and structure, but if the only one who really wants that child to perch on Santa’s lap is you, then it’s time to let it go. There’s way too much “This is what I want, and I don’t care what the kids want” already going on, especially around here. Why add to it?
Thankfully I missed the Lightning game last night, as I see they lost 9-6 to the Calgary Flames. They take on the Capitals tomorrow night, and I am mentally willing my team to win one for me, since I am sure my hockey pleasure is more motivating to the average Lightning player than their colossal paycheck.
Ever since I endured the universe’s most excruciating back injury a few months ago, my right hip still gets sore, and I hobble about with one hand on my hip like a 90-year-old lady, moaning “Ohhh, my hip”, and missing only a wooden cane, white hair, and a geriatric sweater vest. Gary took pity on me last night and gave me another magnificently soothing back rub, which soon he is going to start billing me for, but I enjoyed it immensely. And I swear I don’t fake muscle pain just to get a massage (*wink, wink*).