In case none of you loyal readers have figured it out yet, I'm a "mom blogger." Basically this just means I blog about and post pictures of my son in hopes that someone will find my life as entertaining as I do.
I hope I've accomplished something.
As I type this I'm sitting on the toilet (lid down) while my 1-year-old contently plays in the bath tub. Let me just set the scene for you:
A toddler, diaper and shirt on, sitting in a bath tub with no water playing with a Christmas ornament and plastic bracelet.
The reason I feel so compelled to write about this is because I didn't put him in there. I'm standing in front of the sink brushing my teeth when the child throws said Christmas ornament into the tub and stares at it. Then he pushes down the thing on the faucet that turns the shower on and watches left over water come out.
Where has this place been all his life?
He hiked a leg up and fell in. I braced myself for the shrieking cry that was inevitable, but to my surprise, he just sat up and went after his intended target.
I did what all good mothers do. I kept brushing my teeth and went to get the laptop so I could blog about it.
After a failed attempt at peek-a-boo with the shower curtain, I think he's ready to get out.
I'll slide the rug over there so he doesn't hit his face on the way down.
Oh please don't call the Department on me.
Really. My house is a disaster and I have too much going on to clean it.
Before this incident, he climbed into the laundry basket so that he could play with all the dirty clothes.
So here's my big realization:
There's no way to put him in his bed now.
If we put the bed up again, he's just going to figure out how to climb over it and then he'll fall on the floor and hit his head, and I really will be a terrible mother.
(At this point in the story, we have relocated to his room because he tried to get back in the tub after I got him out and it didn't go as smoothly as the first time.)
Here I am now, sitting in a glider watching my son play in his ball pit that looks like a pirate ship.
Well the ship has capsized. It's propped on its side against his dresser and he is in no way worried about drowning.
My second realization in the last 20 minutes:
We're not going to sleep any time soon.
The thing about this entire post is that the incidents described above are not unusual. In fact, this is a typical night.
Of course people change after they become parents--that's a given. But no one really expects to spend a Friday night watching his/her child put random objects through a basketball hoop while sitting in a pirate ship. You just can't think that stuff up.
Maybe I can convince him to count blocks with me (which I do to try to teach him numbers and colors, but I'm not getting far) and wind down.
Most likely, it will take another hour or so of playing at full force before I can coerce him into slumber. Then and only then will I be able to read the book I've started.
Of course after nonstop playing followed by a fight that consist of me holding him down in order to change his diaper and put cream and powder on his "pee-pee," I will be entirely too tired to do anything but listen to reruns of "Lockup" while I drift off.
The thing about it is, there's nowhere else I'd rather spend a Friday night. This kid is entirely too soft and too cuddly. He sleeps with his mouth open and the scent of caramel flavored varnish (for his chipped tooth) drifts into my nose. I can smell his sweat and skin, and the feeling I have is inexplicable. It makes the screeching sounds, gut twisting smells and really gross sites disappear.
And then if I'm lucky, he'll flop his little arm over me, like he's subconsciously saying, "I'll take care of you too, Mommy."
Then when the sun rises in the morning, I will wake up to him sitting over me mumbling in his own language, smiling with all eight teeth and I'll start this whole thing over again.
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