Last night my husband bemoaned the fact that Bug was pretending to play baseball. I told my hubby that it was hockey because Bug was hitting the ball around on the ground. The husband said it was only because he didn’t have a tee.
So today Bug gets back from a walk with his grandparents to the nearby baseball fields and points to the clutter covered table, saying either “bees” or “piece”. We could not figure out what he wanted, so I systematically started pulling things off the table, asking if it was each thing. You could see the frustration growing around his eyes as he repeated his mystery word, pointed to his new found tennis ball, and say ball. Again.
Is it on the table? No. Is it in your room? Yes! Show me. But he also wanted Grammy and Grampy to see so the four of us crowded around his ginormous toy box as he uncovered the heavy lid and as I opened it. Right away, he grabbed his plastic baseball bat. Bees became base and Grampy taught him how to say baseball instead of just base.
So the grandparents were able to sneak away when I pulled out the one book we own that includes a bat and some balls. After Hop on Pop was done, the kid cuddled with his plastic bat and dog slobber tennis ball. What do I care? Naptime is naptime.
However, when I was writing this, I heard a plastic bat and an uh-oh and somehow he got the bat caught in his bed frame and hit himself in the head. (It didn’t hurt him, don’t worry.). But I mentioned that the bat might want to sleep on the toy box instead of in the bed with him. He nodded, and went back to the wonderland that toddlers visit in their dreams. I’m sure the umpire has already yelled, “Play Ball!”