Mrs. Knievel, I think I feel your pain...

I think my child is going to give me a heart attack, or at least make me go gray early in life. It's to the point that if I take my eyes off of him for a minute, he's into something. And it's not the innocent cereal cabinet, makeup bag, sock drawer, or potted plant kind of mischief(oh yes, he still continually gets into these things when he's really bored) But, now he's moved onto bigger and better things (that's one way to put it). Dangerous things. Things that make a mama's heart stop. Things that require a louder-than-normal "no-no" and even a swat on the hand (yes, I've officially given my first swat of which I didn't expect to be needed or age-appropriate for several more months...I was wrong)

So, you probably think I'm just your average over-protective mother. You know the kind. Every stumble or scrape is a life-threatening traumatic, near-death experience. The kind that puts their kid in knee pads and a helmet for a stroll down the sidewalk. Well, if that was me, then let's just say my life would be in shambles! No, my son is a reckless accident waiting to happen.

He's officially part monkey, or Evil Knievel (toddler-style) and thinks it's feasible to climb on anything and everything. Including the kitchen table. I walked into the kitchen yesterday...yes I really do watch my son, but laundry had to be put in the washing machine (you know how that goes) As I walked in, my jaw dropped when I looked up to see my son standing upright, in the middle of the kitchen table, just a few steps from plunging to the tile...most likely head first (because with every fall Cale seems to make, his head is always the first body part to hit!) I ran to get him, and gave him the whole, "no-no; bad; we don't stand on the kitchen table" speech. Thinking I had really set the record straight with that stern 'talking to' I sat Cale back down. Within minutes, he was at it again. This time, highly surprised (yeah right) that my first disciplinary action hadn't worked, I yelled a panicked "no" and swatted Cale as I took him off the table. Now, I realize my "swat" was not even hard enough to shoo a fly away, but it was a swat him nonetheless. Think Cale was broken-hearted? Never even phased the little guy. What am I going to do?

Later in the evening, things got mysteriously quiet. This is never a good sign, when you have a toddler (unless it's naptime, then it's something worth shouting on the rooftops about). Cale had been playing in the same room as me, but had suddenly stepped out. When I noticed it (I realize I'm making myself sound like a terrible mother here, but this is real life) I went to check on him. Just as I came around the corner, I heard the blood curdling scream. Cale had somehow found a hammer, hidden away in a drawer which he wasn't suppossed to be in, and dropped it on his toes. He kicked and screamed and flailed for several minutes before finally calming down thanks to a dog-shaped 'boo boo' ice pack. Leave it to Cale to find a hidden hammer, that nobody else even knew was in the house. I have nightmares of what he'll dig up when we move in to our new house. Do you know the millions of nails that fill every nook and cranny at that house, inside and out? ....Nightmares, I tell ya.

Today, as we were driving up the driveway, I heard Cale say something like.."bis, bis, bis". Finally I realized it was "bus". My dad drives a school bus, but has been leaving it parked at the school the last few months. But, today for the first time in awile, he brought it home. Cale was excitedly saying "bus". I'm not sure when he learned that word, but I guess he's been storing it away for awhile. So, after dinner I took him out to play and of course the bus was today's four-wheeled, obsession. Well, I guess a bus technically has more than four wheels but you know what I mean. I was a little reluctant, thinking of all the germs that a school bus, once full of multi-aged kids with snotty noses and much worse, holds. But, at the same time I didn't want to deprive my son of getting his first full "school-bus" experience. So I let him climb on, following him every inch of the way. He was making his way down the aisle, an after-dinner Go-gurt in hand and a smile on his face. He dropped the Go-gurt, and I made the mistake of stopping to pick it up. I should've known better. I can't take my eyes off for a second. During the 3 seconds it took for me to pick up the go-gurt wrapper, Cale snatched something off the floor and put it in his mouth. My heart sank as I tried to pry open his mouth, dreading what I would find. Finally he unclenched the jaws of death, and I saw his whole mouth was orange. He had swiped a half-eaten piece of candy off the floor, probably from some kid just oozing with germs. At least that's what my jump-to-conclusions-mom-radar told me. It took me several minutes to get over the nastiness of that whole incident. But, I told myself it was probably not the most disgusting thing he's ever eaten. Somehow that didn't make me feel better.

After the candy incident, bus time was over and we headed back inside. In a matter of minutes of play time, Cale tripped, bit his tongue, and blood ran down his chin, followed by tears and screaming. The screaming was finally stopped by small chips of ice, which I ended up having to feed him for about 15 minutes straight, while watching Yo-Gabba-Gabba. Oh, and Cale now knows how to say the word "ice". Yes, isn't that just wonderful? (hint the sarcasm) I heard it the entire time I was trying to get him into bed, and even after I left his room.

Now do you believe me? I know my mom, whom we've been living with while our house is being built, now does!

Planes, Trains, Automobiles...and Tractors

So it is official. I have a stereotypical little boy. A, loves-to-get-dirty, push trucks around, make unimaginable messes, eat unedible things, and talk about tractors, little he-man. These days in Cale's eyes, everything is a tractor. A train..."tracker". A dump truck..."tracker". A bus..."tracker". A lawn mower..."tracker". Certain questionable-looking trucks..."trackers". It's safe to say he's obsessed with things that 'go'. Ever since his Pops took him on a ride, he's been a tractor junkie. Which is strange considering he sat there on the verge of tears through the entire ride looking very concerned, kept reaching for me to save him, and had the shakes for several minutes after getting off. But, somehow, through the trauma, he ended up completely fascinated. Everytime we pull up to our new house, he chants, "tracker", "tracker". A few weeks ago, we made the mistake of pointing out Pop's tractor in the field, and even letting Cale sit in the seat and pretend to drive. So much for looking at the progress of the house, now. I spend most of my time making sure Cale doesn't fall off of the rusty, parked tractor. His little fingers always manage to find the grease spots on the tractor and then the hands always manage to end up on my shirt.

This past weekend, Carl bought Cale a used toy John Deer Tractor from a friend. Needless to say, he's smitten. It truly was love at first sight. He can't quite figure out how to push the pedal to make the tractor go, but loves it just the same. Occasionally, while getting onto the tractor his foot will land on the pedal in such a way, to give him the thrill of speed for a few seconds. But, then he moves his foot off the pedal and ends up sitting there wondering why the tractor stopped moving. Mostly he ends up pushing the tractor himself. At least he's building up some muscle, right?

It's so funny how little boys are born with that "boy" instinct. The instinct that tells them anything motorized or electronic is interesting. The instinct that says being outside is the only place worth being. The instinct that lures them to trying dangerous things (in Cale's case CLIMBING..on top of tables, chairs, dogs. The instinct that says being dirty is much more fun than being clean. The instinct that tells them driving anything (cars, tractors, bikes) is one of the best things in the world. Then, little boys grow up to be men who still dream of adventure, fast motorcycles, and the great outdoors. Boys will be boys, I guess.

I woke up this morning at about 6:30, thanks to the cries of my sweet little boy, who thought it was past time to get out of bed. We played and checked out the Easter basket and cuddled (aka me trying to hug on Cale as he frantically tries to get away) and watched cartoons before I remembered that it was my birthday. It's funny how birthdays change as we get older. When we're young, we begin counting down the days, months prior to a birthday. We dream about the day, the party, the presents, the friends. We anticipate being that next, always more appealing, number. And when we're young, no number is ever big enough. Nowadays, I often have to stop and think about how old I am. "Is it 25 or 26?" Then the mental math begins... "Let's see, I was born in '84, so..." I'm not kidding. Is my subconscious trying to tell me something?

Twenty-six doesn't bother me too badly. I guess I'm not in my early twenties anymore, but I'm still in the twenty-somethings, right? Oh the twenties, only to be followed by the dreadful thirties. I have four more years to hold on before I have to let go. On the way to church this morning, my husband leaned over, pointed to the front of his hair, which is gradually becoming speckled with salt and pepper, and informed me that I should enjoy it while it lasts because this is what I have to look forward to. Little does he know, I actually already have occassional grays (can you call it occassional if you find one almost every time you look?) that pop up every now and then. Every now and then...ahem..that's what I keep telling myself. Unlike my husband, I'm not too proud to do something about it. Thank you hair dye. And mother-in-laws who are hairdressers! And second graders that are not afraid to tell you when you have those unsightly, or so you thought, pesky gray hairs.

After church today, and nursery duty, we decided to reward ourselves with some Mexican food. Then, we went off to work on our house while my sister watched Cale.




So, the outside of our house is finally finished, more or less. In some ways it's seems like 'building time' has flown by, but in other ways it seems like we'll never be finished. I guess I'm really wishy-washy that way. Sometimes I think building a house hasn't been bad at all; not nearly as daunting or worrisome as I had tried to prepare myself for it to be (of course, if you ask my Dad or Carl, they might have a different outlook since they're the ones doing most of the work!) But, then other days it seems like building a house is going to push us to the breaking point! Overall it's been a very exciting experience; driving up every few days, excited about what changes have been made. Hopefully only 5 more weeks and we can begin getting Cale accustomed to his new home. It's so exciting to think about moving into the home that will house so many memories for us. Our kids will grow up in this home. They will loose their first tooth, wait for the Easter Bunny, start kindergarten, play t-ball, listen for Santa, have slumber parties, talk on the phone way too late at night, have their first crush, get their hearts broken, graduate high school...all in this house. I can understand why some people never want to leave the house their children grow up in. So many memories.