My son loves ball pools.
There’s no denying it, we thought it might be just a phase, and that he’d grow out of it, but eventually, we came to accept it. Our son is never happier than when he’s surrounded by small balls of different colors. He has two things he does – the first is to grab two, bash them together for an unspecified period of time, and then stop. The second activity is a little stranger – he will select a particularly good looking ball, lick the entirety of it, then put it back and pick another, repeating the process until he’s surrounded by well licked plastic balls. I always wondered what my son would have as a hobby, I am hoping that he develops a new one. Soon.
My son is also now wearing Pajamas, shown here during his routine morning cot bar shaking:
Upon the realisation I was going to become one of those dad type beings, one image cropped up in my head – that of our son, in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes, asking to come into bed with us because he’d had a bad dream, and only the snoring, bleary eyed mass that is his parents could make him feel safe and able to sleep again. The addition of pajamas to our son makes me think of this, and my heart does a little dance of joy. Sadly, he isn’t yet in his own room, he doesn’t ask to come into our bed – he is already in there, I’m sleeping on the sofa because of it, and he only rubs his eyes when he’s trying to keep himself awake in
order to ensure we have as little rest as possible.
No, we’re not quite at the image that ‘cropped up’. Not. Quite. There.