I think it is now worth mentioning that my younger child’s interest in The Wiggles has gone from “enh, they sing, I like that” to “let me at them, I need them, all the time” in about two weeks. It’s freaky. Fresco is a much more attached-to-objects kid than his brother; he sleeps with a collection of stuffed animals, they all have to kiss each other good night, that sort of thing. Trombone used to take a book to bed with him. Only in the last year or so has he paid much attention to stuffed animals. I tried to get him attached to things because it’s supposed to be helpful for kids, right? to have things they love As Much As If Not More Than their mothers. I’d read about people losing their kids’ special toys or washing the special blanket and having chaos break out and it was kind of nice, actually, to not have to worry about that with Trombone. Is it a book? He will love it. Until he sees the next book. The End.
Fresco. Different kid.
Last week it was cute. We had a copy of “Wiggles Go Bananas” in the house, on loan from the library. We watched it every day. Half in the morning, half in the evening because that’s how much TV children are supposed to watch. Every day. Trombone was busy learning the dance moves and the song lyrics and Fresco seemed to be not paying much attention at all and then one day he said he was Sam. “What’s your name,” I said. It’s a question I ask him a lot because his answer is always different and never correct. “Sam,” he said. “Sam Wiggle?” I said. “Uh huh!” he said. “Whatcha doing, Sam?” I said. “Cook! Noo noo!” (noodles) he said. OK. Cute! Right?
The next day: “Lello Wiggle Sam!” Yellow Wiggle Sam. OK. Fresco calls everything “lello” but in this case he was right.
Then he found Trombone’s Wiggles shirt, which I had bought at Value Village months ago when Trombone needed pyjamas. The shirt is red with all four Wiggles on it: Original Yellow Wiggle Greg, (precursor to Sam), Murray (red), Anthony (blue) and Jeff (purple, sleeping sickness.) We’re not hard and fast on what clothes the kids wear to bed or during the day because one pair of elastic-waistbanded pants is much like the next, so we asked Trombone if Fresco could borrow his Wiggles shirt for the day. Trombone, who couldn’t care less about what he is wearing or what is on the shirt in question, said sure. Three days later, here’s Fresco, the shirt caked in noodles, butter, yogurt, orange, peanut butter, staring lovingly at his torso. “Wiggles!” he said. “Yes,” I said, “dirty Wiggles.”
(Ha ha.)
Do you think I could get the shirt off him? Those of you with typical toddlers are shaking with laughter because of COURSE not. He has to have it. On his person. Or within sight. We did manage to wash it and he hauled it back out of the laundry basket as soon as it was dry. Nearly had a nervous breakdown when SA suggested a different shirt for bedtime.
Two days ago, the best thing. He points at the shirt. He says, “Honey.” “Honey?” I say. No one in our house uses that word unless it’s going on toast. “Honey,” he says, pointing to Anthony. “Oh, ANTHONY,” I say. “Uh huh! Honey!”
Oh Honey. We love you. And your white, white teeth and your grey, grey hair and your not-even-a-little-bit lifted face.
I need more Wiggles clothing. Stat.
