GAYS MILLS - I had always hoped my kid would be satisfied with a magical, fulfilling imagination. I apparently must have wished upon the right star for that one because if Thatcher is nothing else, he is certainly full of imagination.
This certainly may come as no surprise to my regular readers, but, what might come as a surprise is the fact that Thatcher can be an unrelenting master of performances for his playmates.
During his progress report at daycare, his teacher noted that Thatcher can be a little bossy at times.
“This isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” she shared. “He is a leader–it just needs to be funneled the right way.”
I’ve also heard Thatcher’s beloved Mawkee (Grandpa Mark) comment on how Thatcher “does NOT like to share me” in terms of attention of his favorite playmate.
I, admittedly, am not usually at the brunt of his demands. He and I have worked out a polite system of clear and thoughtful communication that he usually sticks to.
That was until last night, when he constructed a new game centered on “the pig hutch.”
“MOM! Come play piggy with me!” Thatcher called from the upstairs playroom.
I glanced at Chasca who I knew had been previously held the place of honor as “Daddy Pig.”
“It’s your turn. His little Pig Hutch is a torture chamber of dust and he made me pretend to eat wooden blocks for a very long time,” Chasca reported with a little bit of exhaustion in his own voice and congestion setting in.
So, like any good mom, I got down on all fours and scampered up the stairs, oinking and squealing as I went. Also grabbing at the legs of my child, pretending to be a feisty, nipping hog, as he “The Farmer Man” directed me to my “Pass-urrrrre” and “Hutch.”
“Lets go celebrate in the passure momma pig!” Thatcher squealed. “GET IN YOUR HUTCH!”
Because pigs aren’t generally really compliant to demands, I decided I wouldn’t be either. Also, the hutch is small and I’m large and I didn’t really want to squeeze in there.
“Come piggy mama come get your dinner, it’s BEANS! And CORN!” Thatcher announced as be began piling up wooden blocks.
“I’m rolling in the mud! WEE WEE WEE OINK OINK OINK!” I responded.
This, as it turns out, is completely unsatisfactory pig behavior.
“No, Mom, I’m serious. Be a good pig and get in the hutch,” Thatcher responded, hands on his hips, giving me an all too familiar glare.
So, again, like any realistic pig. I didn’t comply. I instead, began oinking loudly, anytime he gave me a direction, interrupting him, in a fashion, I thought he’d be familiar with.
When he crawled out of the hutch again in an effort to physically move me in there, somehow, I pretended to grab him and announced, “I’m a big ole mean hungry pig, and Imma gonna eatcha! OINK!”
This performance was also considered quite unsatisfactory to my almost four year old. He sat on his train table and again, looked at me very seriously.
“Now mom, I need you to be a calmly, more nicer pig,” Thatcher explained. “Not a mean farmer eater pig, Okay? Can we do this? Get in the hutch.”
Reluctantly, I crawled into the chaise lounge cushion baby blanket cave that was filled with matchbox cars and wooden blocks–which, you may be surprised to learn, was truly less than comfortable.
“Now, eat your corn and beans pig, so you can get really big and we can get milk from you,” Thatcher patted my head kindly.
I was kind of personally offended that my own kid thought milk came from pigs, so I stopped him right there and corrected him. I explained that he’s more likely to harvest hams and bacon from me.
He responded by prodding my belly and saying. “Lets fatten you up, PIG and get some meats from you!”
I rooted around in the little hutch pretending to eat blocks until luckily the damn thing collapsed on me, and Chasca called us all down for dinner. Thatcher however, was totally engulfed in his role as Farmer and fully expected his dad to deliver us plates of meat loaf and carrots for him in his pasture and mine in my hutch.Denying this request resulted in truly heartfelt tears from my child, and the “but you make me so saddddddd” explanation. However, promises that I would forever be his “Piggly Wiggly Sweetheart” followed by lots of oinking seemed to sooth the Farmer Boy, at least enough for one night.