Palkónapló: It's good to eat flower soil

Palkónapló: It's good to eat flower soil
Palkónapló: It's good to eat flower soil
Anonim

Around Christmas, Palkó started climbing. The news would have lasted until now if I had written this diary about Lackó or Mici at the time. After all, there was nothing special about it with the first two children, Lackó crawled after his cars, Mici crawled for a very short time, stood up quickly and mostly pushed her stroller. But Palkó is different.

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For him, this news is only half about movement development. He comes from the terrible breed, and why not, after two children who perform their climbing age relatively easily, the problem is almost there. This is what British scientists call "statistics".

He analyzes it with the ease of being an outside observer: "of course, since he's just curious". Of course. I was the same when I went on a big trip outside of the nursery for the first time. And yet, I was able - at least according to my mother - to behave like a blessed good child. I didn't even climb into the sandpit to avoid getting dirty, and even on all fours I just slalomed between the flower pots rather than unpacking them. So, if my mother was alive, she would understand me now.

My younger brother, on the other hand, wanted to know what the ancestors could have put so carefully in the pots, especially under the flowers, what the hero villain that mysteriously entered the room might taste like, and to this day the chapter that it discusses in detail what the young man did with the two purple-ripe cherries he found in his garden bed.

My younger brother Palkó was in vain as a godchild. Or my younger brother as godfather to Palko. They will have a lot in common. What's more, what I'm talking about, since it already exists. Here, for example, is this flower soil thing. This must be some extremely interesting game that I simply cannot comprehend with my stunted brain. Because in vain, I don't understand what's so exciting about it that it's worth pulling fingers with mommy and secretly returning back and forth, packing the soil, tasting it, spreading it on the floor. I don't understand why orbital hysteria needs to be staged when all these activities are put to a definite end by the mother, who is exhausted by the useless texting.

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Or why you have to rearrange the bottom shelf of the kitchen cabinet every day. Even several times. Why do you always have to abuse the small, soft babyhood of the youngest brotherhood and make it into the game of the older ones, which they - especially Lackó - can only watch with helpless, seething rage, because you can't yell at Palkó, you can't threaten Palkó, because unfortunately he enjoys parental protection above all else ? And most of all: why do cords, plugs, connectors have such an extraordinary attractive force?

And how funny it all started, how indulgently we smiled, when Palkó took the first, quiet, twenty-centimeter distance with his knees together. And how much easier it was a few weeks ago, when we just grabbed the swaying child and put him three meters away from the power outlet, flower pots, carefully constructed wooden train network, knowing that these three meters are at least an hour of strained muscle work for him, and for us a useful respite from until the next sale. The key word was. Peace is over.

Panzej

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