Last night, I was playing with Baby Girl on the bed. Since Little Man had slept with us the night before, his favorite stuffed animal was on the bed, and I was using it to play with BG. Every time I would wave the stuffed dog closer, she would squeal and reach her arms out, then try to clutch him to put his ears in her mouth.
It was a lot of fun, and then Little Man entered and saw what was going on.
“That’s my dog,” he stated matter-of-factly, narrowing his eyes at his six-month-old sister, who looked at him innocently while slobbering all over the dog’s ear.
“I know,” I answered. “Your little sister is playing with him now, okay?”
“Yeah, but it’s my dog. He’s my son,” Little Man said, climbing on the bed. He sat down beside his sister, anxiously watching the droolfest.
“You’ll get him back before you go to bed,” I told him.
He sighed. All of a sudden, he reached out and snatched the dog. “Look Baby Girl! Bubba is going to play with you!” he squealed in a high-pitched voice. By “play,” he meant hold the dog well out of BG’s reach.
Baby Girl was not amused. She made a face at LM and started to fuss, so I asked the boy for the dog back. “Just let her play with him for a little while longer, okay?” I really didn’t want to fuss at him, because it is his toy. If it were one he didn’t have an emotional attachment to, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to telling him to cut it out and stop taking a toy he wasn’t even playing with.
Little Man’s eyes glazed over. “Fine. She can play with him,” he said coldly and placed the dog next to BG. She was ecstatic, of course, and the happy baby squealing resumed.
“Well,” Little Man announced loudly, “it’s time for me to go write in my diary. I’ve got something I need to write about.”
The diary didn’t ring a bell. He has a ton of journals that he writes his lists (of which there are many) and science experiment observations in. I didn’t realize he kept a diary, though.
“I have a diary where I write my private thoughts,” he answered. “And I have something to write about now. But I can’t tell you. Because it’s private.”
Okay then. A short while later, my husband, Baby Girl, and I were in the living room. Little Man came in and plopped a small notebook down on the end table. It had DIARY written in large letters across the front.
“This is my diary,” Little Man informed us. “It’s super secret and you can never read a word that I write inside of there. Okay?”
My husband and I nodded, both amused and intrigued.
“And I’m going to leave it right here on the table. If you want, you can pick it up and look at the cover. BUT YOU CAN NEVER OPEN IT AND LOOK INSIDE.” The kid was serious. “And Baby Girl can never look in it either. When she’s old enough to listen, I want you to remind her once per year.”
After he went to bed, I cracked open the diary. Part of me wanted to respect his privacy, but at the same time, the way the whole diary thing came about, I was pretty sure really wanted me to read it.
So I opened it. In his first ever diary entry, he had written about having to share his “favrit” stuffed animal. I figured as much.
“Now I know what your going to say. That he’s just a stuffed animal. But I got him when I was a baby. So there you go.”
Point taken. Next time I’ll have him bring me a replacement. I don’t suppose I’d want someone drooling all over my favorite items either, even if the drool did come from a bundle of cuteness. We’ll have to visit Build-A-Bear soon so we can get BG a stuffed animal like her brother’s.