C is a talker.
He wakes up talking.
He goes to sleep talking.
Which is funny if you think about it because he was actually pretty quiet for the first three years of his life.
Maybe he's still practicing the skills he learned from his speech therapist two years ago.
Maybe he's making up for lost time.
For the most part, I enjoy C's conversation. He's often really funny.
Other times, I'm just tolerant. I find myself saying "uh huh" or "oh, really?" when he's telling me about Star Wars super battle droids because I'm honestly incapable of anything more sophisticated when it comes to the topic of Star Wars, Return of the Jedi, Empire Strikes Back, and/or Clone Wars.
And sometimes, I need for him to just stop talking. Quiet down. Hold his tongue. Keep mum. Zip it.
Usually when I'm on the phone.
Frequently when I'm trying to respond to a student's email.
Occasionally when I'm deeply engrossed in a magazine article.
And, I'll admit: Sometimes I yell. I lose my temper and I'm not proud of it. I wish that I was one of those parents who can say that parenting has made them more patient. I'm not. I struggle with patience every single day of my life, usually on an hourly basis.
Which is why preschool has been so good for us. Good for C. Good for me. Two and a half hours a day of goodness that allows me to be alone in a mostly silent environment so that I can prep myself for the chatter-filled afternoon ahead.
But yesterday, C came home from school and talked about how his teacher had "physically redirected" him because he was talking (too much and at the wrong times at school).
And that made this Mom feel like a little mad...