I realize recent blog posts sound rather idyllic. I’ve been told so, usually with a tone of admiration that suggests friends who once thought I was crazy for making this big bold move to the country can now see the contentment it’s bringing.
And overall, it is. We’ve had months of lazy walks in the woods or games of tag on the lawn. We’ve taught our new puppy to fetch and shake and sit and not devour the chickens. We’ve watched the chickens parade, single file, largest to smallest, in a circle around the property – taking an entire day to snack on every bug along the way. And the bug/frog catching along with the bird/deer/furry-interloper watching never does get old.
But oh my, do we have some days around here. You know those days,where you sit down at the end of an evening, put your feet up and wonder how on earth that happened. And how we survived it all.
Take yesterday for example. It was Max’s first day of ECFE.
Max, my little hulk, prone to wailing his discontent and overturning chairs if I so much as reach a door handle before he can shout “I do, I DO!” In the last few days, Max has laid on the floor and wailed and/or overturned a chair because:
- he didn’t want to go in with me to meet the girls’ piano teacher;
- he didn’t want to leave the piano teacher’s home because she has cool doves;
- he didn’t want to to in to the vet office;
- he wanted me to push his trike;
- he wanted me to not push his trike; and
- he didn’t want to get off his trike.
For his first day of school, I steeled myself for the worst. Needless, he was a total charmer at school. He was so proud to sing his songs. So eager to share with his little classmates. Twice he passed little people cars out to startled little girls playing at the nearby doll house, proud to have something to give them. Before long, he had a little gang of kids driving little people cars around the car mat.
I was awfully proud.
Later in the day, though, I took an entirely different little being to the library with my girls. We attended a hula hooping event, and the poor kid would not resign himself to reading or playing at the train table while his sisters played with big bright hoops.
So after some embarrassing wailing, and one hilarious attempt at flipping over a chair much larger than he was used to, he hula hooped.
He wiggled with the best of them, grinning at the 6, 8, and 12 year-old-girls while his little pink hoop clattered to the ground around him.
He even tried a few tricks, flinging it over his head and around his shoulder.
And then he went down.
Just before we all packed up and headed home, he landed flat on his face, hands pinned behind his back by the hoop. I’ll spare you the details of my trip to the emergency room, my left side covered in blood from my ear to my elbow, Maya hyperventilating, wondering if he’d need stitches, while I myself wondered if he’d keep his teeth or need jaw rebuilt. Elliot just went quiet, very quiet, hugging her the pony that lives next to her car seat.
Even after all that, he’s just fine. He’s healing. His teeth will, hopefully, stick in there for the required three more years.
But I’ll be honest. I’d trade the entire pregnancy, delivery, and first 6 months of new baby three times over for this swatch of two-year-old, I-can’t-quite-tell-you-what-I-want-but-I-want-it-NOW, and I’m-growing-faster-than-my-balance-can-handle….
I’ll coach him through this phase. I’ll figure out the tricks. And thankfully, by baby number three, I can channel peace like a river even as the chairs are upturned.
But at the end of some days, I just have to put my feet up and wonder.