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!
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