I decided today – possibly a little too late, but better late than never – that I’m going to start keeping track of all the somedays that Norah solicits and I agree to. What is a someday? It’s anything that Norah asks to try/see/do/experience/acquire that for some reason or another she has established is not likely or appropriate for the immediate future, and so with eyebrows raised in contemplative curiosity says “Mama, someday can I (insert thing to try/see/do/experience/acquire here)?”
This happens a lot. Several times a day in fact. And I tend toward the affirmative in my response. There’s the occasional maybe as well, as I don’t believe in empty promises, and I actually do take the time to carefully consider her request and gauge its feasibility before responding. Most of her somedays just happen to be quite reasonable and so rarely do I find myself saying any form of no. What I do find myself doing is trying to make some sort of mental note about said someday so that I can actually deliver on my agreement because, well, I love that little girl more than furniture (her comparison, not mine) and I want to make her super happy (when doing so is safe, affordable, appropriate and workable).
Do you know where mental notes in parent brains wind up? Neither do I. Maybe where the other sock from the laundry goes, or maybe where my red J. Crew or black Madewell cardigans went (I’m really good at losing somewhat pricey button down sweaters). Where they don’t go is to any place accessible or locatable, so anything that my darling daughter asked for before today is off in the ether with the rest of the things my mom mind has eschewed in the interest of leaving space for more pressing things, like asking Crosby if he needs to go potty every 12 and a half minutes so I don’t wind up with a puddle on the floor.
Finally accepting my failure at capturing these sometimes important and sometimes silly requests in any referable way, today, when Norah came to me in the kitchen with her latest someday, I opened the notepad on my iPhone and made a legit, locatable, accessible note…
She asked for taffy, just a piece. Taffy is one of those things I refuse to give to my children at this age because I value their teeth and feel they should only come out of their heads at a time that’s decided by growth and nature. I accept that there are good kinds of taffy that are less likely to cause dental damage, but the kinds encountered by the Elder children to date have been the terribly hard and sticky (cheap) versions that wind up in Halloween buckets or sent home with preschool party bags. Pardon me while I put on my judgy pants – why, why, why, why, why of all the candy out there would you choose that for a holiday party at a preschool? I’ll add to this the fact that apple slices are always the last thing to be signed up for, with cheesy poofs and cookies quickly claimed, and say one big WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS WORLD?!!??!?!??!??!?!, before stepping off my angry mom box.
Where was I? Taffy – when it comes home to Elderland, it goes in the trash, along with tootsie rolls, airheads, and that fun dip crap. I let my kids have treats, no doubt about that, but I maintain some sort of control over these treats. I explain to Norah that the taffy is too hard and isn’t very good anyway, and I offer her something more kid friendly and enticing like ice-cream. Today, however, she politely inquired as to whether or not she could try a piece of taffy someday, adding that she’d be careful not to bite it, but would just suck on it like a lollipop so it didn’t bust her grill (okay, maybe she said hurt her teeth, but I think I might teach her to say bust my grill). I sighed and obliged, but with the caveat that I’d like to get her a good piece of taffy to try, and now it’s here, in writing, and I won’t forget, and we’ll call this the kickoff to Norah’s someday wish list that I intend to satisfy as wholly as possible. I mean I’ve got like 50 years right? Easy peasy.