They say that small kids change constantly- physically, emotionally, preferences, the whole shebang. I would agree with that. One day, we love eating pasta. The next day, “I DON’T WANT THAT” as though we’re serving old slugs in sweaty gym sock sauce. I want to read a book, no I WANT to play. No, I WANT to read a BOOK! NO I WANT TO PLAY!!
Sigh.
But one thing is always the same with our boy: ‘BATOS! I want BATOS!’ The tomato obsession endures.
We have a tradition in our house. Jackson wakes up, yells for us to come get him “Mama……Daddy….Mama….Daddy….”, we drag our tired butts outta bed, go get him, change him (PU stinky diaper!) and then it’s time for a refreshing beverage. Which beverage you ask? ‘Milk! Milk! Milk! Milk! Milk!’ We bring the sippy cup of milk into Mommydaddybed and we drink and snuggle.
For the past week when he comes to bed with us, I’ve asked him did he sleep well, “yeah,” and what did you dream about? He always says the same thing with a wistful look on his face “elephants.”
Yesterday while lying on his back between me and Mike, AJ announces “‘Bato! I see ‘Bato!” Now unless he can see with his feet, through the wall and then sharply angle his vision down one floor- and while he’s a talented kid, he’s not *that* talented- no he can’t. But maybe, I’m wrong, maybe he is seeing tomatoes. I can believe that in his mind’s eye, he’s hurling himself through endless fields of delicious cherry tomatoes, hands plucking them as fast as his fingers can move, tomato seeds running down his face, cheeks stuffed to capacity, jaw pounding as he bursts more fruits.
We cannot leave the house without him running over to the potted tomato plant, fingers pointing and proclaming: “Batos! I see ‘batos! I see one there!” Now that there are more ripe fruits, I’ve had to limit him to six per outing (though not always successfully) in hopes of keeping his little stomach from a total nuclear meltdown.
Last night after he’d had his quota he kept pointing to other ripe fruits and alerting me to the fact that, in case I had suddenly become color blind and confused as to how to determine whether or not a cherry tomato is ready for toddler picking, he could see more ripe tomatoes. I told him no more. That we had to wait until tomorrow. He glowered up at me with just a hint of pouty lip, put his hands on his hips and announced “I’m upset!”
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