I’ve written about my son’s whining before.
Of course I’ve written about it before. It’s such a large part of my day-to-day existence, the presence of the whine, the powerlessness to do anything about the whine, the desire to drink lots of wine because of the whine, that how could I not have written about it before?
But that was foolish. Because in the time since I wrote that post, things have taken a turn. And I’ve learned that whatever whining that I was, ahem, whining about back then was hardly whining at all.
We’ve moved! Mostly.
Right now, we are in limbo at my parents in CT while I commute to Manhattan during the week and hunt for a Brooklyn apartment on the weekend. (Yup, from BK to NC and back again.) It’s stressful and exhausting and it generally sucks, for everyone except my son. He gets to spend all day with Grandma, gorging on juice boxes and cracker parties and chocolate chip cookies. He’s like a pig in shit. But he’s wiping my parents out.
To offer them a reprieve, sometimes Detective Munch comes down to NYC too. And if you thought apartment hunting in NYC was hard, try doing it with a 3yo by your side.
On Tuesday I wrote about the possibility of hitting my son.
Mostly because, lately, he won’t seem to stop hitting me!
Back when Inside the Actor’s Studio was a thing (it may still be a thing, but Kate Hudson has been on it so…), I used to enjoy the stupid quiz at the end, from James Lipton’s beloved Bernard Pivot.
Two of the questions involve sounds:
What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
The actors often respond with similar child-based variations on these answers, usually something to the effect of “children laughing” or “a child crying.”