Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Balm in Gilead

Ainsley's been  fighting a rash lately, so  I chucked her diaper and let her air dry.

(Let me pause to reflect on what a fifteen year-old Ainsley will think should she ever delve into the archives of her mother's blog. Sorry, Sunshine!)

Diaperless babies seem to get an extra spring their steps. "I'm freeeee!" they seem to shout. Of course the inevitable happened.  I discovered not by stepping in it or from  a report issued from a scandalized and irrate brother, but because I spotted moist footsteps running the length of the dining room table.

Where else would she choose to be wild and free?

So when I read Kate Wicker's recent post, I had to laugh. She recounts:

Imagine this: As you're in the midst of school, you hear the toilet still running so you swing open the bathroom door to find a lake on the floor and a gushing waterfall coming from the commode. Later that same day your preschool daughter who is completely potty trained but sometimes has trouble pooping in the sitting position smears not one but three pairs of panties (what is it with my children and poop?). She also poops on your kitchen floor and then insists she didn't have to poop (she was just exercising, she says; it did look like she was doing squats). This all happens after you gave her a bath. Meanwhile, your toddler, who ran away from you giggling and stark naked, has peed all over your wood floor and walked through the puddle leaving a trail of wet, pee footprints all over. Oh, and the dog is trying to lick up the pee .
I've mentioned before that I abhor that over-worked phrase LOL, but a while back when I  read Amy's post on grocery store woes, I laughed so hard I nearly cried. Here is my God son's account of what transpired:
"Okay," Aiden began, "well, first I knocked over those drinks."

"I walked by those cards and knocked them over," Dawson added.

"I ran down the opposite aisle of Mama and surprised her," he explained as he drew out the game plan on the table with a big smile erupting.

Dawson now began to giggle as he admired his brother's handy work. "I hopped down the aisle when you told me to stay by you."

"We blocked that man in the wheelchair cart from coming down the aisle because we were both laying on the floor looking at that huge crack," he giggled again nearly high-fiving Dawson.

"And when you were checking out, I ran over to the change machine instead of staying by you," Dawson remembered.

"I guess I did that too," remembered Aiden.
Hilarious in the retelling; time off of purgatory to live through. I, too, have died a thousand deaths in grocery stores. Oh, how I could feel Amy's pain.

So many of these mommy-blogs are full of colorful and smelly antics. Of course the crazy stories seem more post worthy than  the three-year-old coming up and saying "I wove you, Mama."  But in the interest of fair and balanced reporting (and in an effort to convince my single friends that motherhood isn't pure drudgery), I am happy to report that there is more love than dirty socks around our place. Well, okay, maybe at the moment this isn't strictly true. Tim and Dave did just return from a Wilderness Survival Weekend, in the North Georgia mountains where the snakes may be dormant but there are bears, yes bears!  I am happy to report that Dad and Son did survive, but their socks? Well, they didn't fare quite so well.

But back to the main point, whatever that was. Oh, yes. There's lots 'o love around here.

John loves his stories at nap and bedtime. They are such constants that he gets whiny when I suggest we read together. I am trying to convince him that an offer for a 'tory, as he calls them, doesn't always  mean he's getting shipped off to bed.

Anyway. As I start to read, I feel a tug on my right arm. When we read my right arm has to be wrapped around him. If I move it to get a second book or to turn a page, I am instantly met with a "Hey!" I like to move my arm just to have him grab it and move it back. "This is nice, " he said the other night as we read and snuggled. It is so very nice, so very sweet, and - I know all too well - so very short lived.

Suspicious footprints might litter odd surfaces, grocery shopping may require a stiff drink, and potty training might not be over even when it's over, but there is balm in Gilead - the balm of soft cheeks, squishy hands, lisping voices, full laps, arms that can't let go, and love, lots of love.

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