It shouldn't annoy me, but it does.
He's always doing it.
While he's putting on his shoes (the wrong feet!), cleaning up his cars (stopping to race them twice) and after he comes out of his room after a temper tantrum time-out, he is doing it.
He learned it from his Dad. The Hubs whistles first thing in the morning before I can even complete a full sentence. Yesterday, I caught him whistling the Caillou theme song when he got out of the shower.
It's not that I don't like whistling. I do. I think it's absolutely adorable that my 3 year old will be racing his airplane across the back of the couch, whistling the whole way.
So why does it bother me?
I don't know. Maybe it's because I associate whistling with strolling along, with nary a care in the world.
Which is totally the opposite of my life, with its never ending to do list and endless grocery trips.
I should be thankful that my son and Hubs are so well taken care of, so happy and comfortably content, that they feel carefree enough to whistle.
But sometimes as I frantically race through the house, packing a diaper bag and snacks and sunscreen and - did you go to the potty yet? - cheerios and bottles and - be gentle with your sister! - all while putting on a swipe of lipstick and mascara. . . . well, sometimes it just annoys me.