Crash Bang

"Boy: A noise with dirt on it."

One of the funniest stickers on the scrapbook Robin gave me has that definition of boy on it. Which was hysterical to me because it seriously couldn't be more true. I swear, in this house, we are really starting to get into the nitty-gritty of boyhood. I can just feel it. He is truly a noise, with dirt on it. And already at 11 months, I am becoming the mother I never thought I would be. "No". "Don't touch that." "Stay over here." "Come away from that." I hear myself and I cringe. My single friends would be scared to visit if they heard me. And despite my efforts to deter him from harm, if I turn away for one second, one of two things happens. One: there is silence. Silence is never good (unless of course it's sleeping silence, which is wonderful). Silence means there is a hand in the catfood. Or that he's definitely gotten a hold of something and is in the process of putting it in his mouth. The second scenario is the crash-bang. Of course, this is usually followed by stunned silence. Followed by the slow whine that really is just the windup for the real lung-power, the freak-out wail. Both of these scenarios keep me on my toes at every second and I am surprised (and a little upset, frankly) that these have not aided in my weight-loss efforts.

The boy can literally crawl 50 feet in one-point-two seconds. He crawls at the speed of light. He also pulls up on everything, whether it is stable or not. The seat of a chair is stable. However, the back of the chair is not. Crash-bang. A table is stable. The tray on the table with a vase on it (which mommy thought for sure he could not reach) is not. Crash bang. This was today. And you know what followed in both of those scenarios.

And then, there are the millions of times that I look over and see the jaw moving as he's sitting there. Which means there is something in there. So I take out the hook. The hook is my index finger, which I bend in a hook shape and I use to pry open tiny jaw, maneuver between his 8 razor-sharp teeth and whilst getting bitten in the process, scoop out whatever he's chewing on. Grass, a leaf, a plastic thing from a tag, cat hair (gross!). Last night, I saw the chewing. But by the time I got the hook in there, there was a swallow. Husband asks, "Did you get it?" I answer, "Nope. We'll see what it was tomorrow!" I am constantly sweeping and mopping and consider myself to have pretty clean floors. But it doesn't matter. He finds it. Whatever it is. And breaks it or puts it in his mouth. There is, literally, nothing else to get! I have put it all away! But he gets it, whatever it is anyway. I don't understand it! He is like a motor going a million miles a minute and by the end of the day I'm exhausted from chasing, scooping, cleaning, chasing, scooping, cleaning. And he's not even one yet! Then I look over at that cute round portly face which smiles at me and he reaches his arms up at me and I can't help but go from angry to loving just as fast as he can crawl. Who can get mad at that??? I need a drink.