Eight hours and fifteen minutes.
That's how much time my son is in preschool each week. Two hours and forty-five minutes, three mornings a week. For a little boy who is almost five years old with a mom who is, quite frankly, burnt out on trips to the park and mommy-and-me classes it's not really enough time. During the remaining weekday hours the poor child watches Dinosaur Train while I take a shower, tags along with me on errands, helps me prep dinner, helps me check out books to kids in the South H Elementary library and basically has been my constant sidekick for the past 4.5 years. We're tight.
He's a typical third child, unabashedly spoiled. The mother that I was to my girls when they were his age is disgusted with me. Sometimes I let him watch more than a half hour of TV. Sometimes we skip lunch and just eat snacks all day. Sometimes we eat our crumbly, messy snacks on the couch even. Sometimes I might nod off for a few minutes on the couch while he does a puzzle. My grocery bill will dramatically shrink once I don't take him shopping with me and overlook the foot long fruit rolls he dumps into the cart among other items he can't live without. Items my older two children have never even tasted.
And sometimes I let him use the scissors to cut the wrapper of the foot long fruit rolls into tiny pieces. Then I let him take all the pillows off the couch and spread the little pieces of paper all over his "jumpy house." I proceed to snap some photos before I slap myself of the head and take away the scissors.
Perhaps I should suck it up and take him to a gymnastics class or something with safety mats and where they don't let the kids jump with scissors.
And speaking of child safety... I am thinking of Faking My Blog. You should too.