Subtitled: Oh, The Lessons You Will Learn With A Man-Child
A mere 15 hours ago, I sent out this tweet:
That statement was made after watching my Mr. Boy, a ripe old 20 months, trip over his own feet, bump into the table, fall over toys (that you could see a mile away) . . . . just one injury after another.
Then, he outdid himself.
Yesterday evening, after dinner, I decided to take Mr. Boy and the Nephew (who is 3) outside to burn off energy before bed. They were on the porch, playing with their toys . . . the sun was shining, birds were chirping. All was right with the world.
As I glanced across my Mom’s backyard, I noticed (ahem) dog poop. Well, that was NOT something I wanted my curious toddler to mess with, so I grabbed plastic bags and began cleaning it up.
Lesson #1: Leave dog poop where it lands when you’re outside with boys.
I heard the Nephew, who had found riding toys for himself and Mr. Boy, talking about going off the porch. Now, being a reasonable, logical adult, I assumed they were talking about walking down the porch steps — all three of them — to the yard.
Lesson #2: Never assume ANYTHING when dealing with boys.
Turns out, the Nephew was hatching a plan to R-I-D-E their little bikes off the porch. . . ride down the three porch steps . . . and land on the sidewalk below.
Lesson #3: No matter their age, boys will always take on the role of Dare-Devil. Always.
Mr. Boy thought the Nephew’s plan was brilliant and off he went. For a split second, I’m sure his descent was thrilling — the most dangerous moment of his little life. Something every boy thrives on.
But, then, he landed.
Lesson#4: When boys fall, they fall hard.
His scream turned my stomach and I ran to him, dropping the bag of poop . . . well, somewhere. I guess I need to go find that.
I found my poor Mr. Boy, hysterical, lying face down on the sidewalk — his riding toy somewhat under his legs.
I hugged, rocked, coddled . . . sent the Nephew in the house for my Mom . . . administered ice and Tylenol. All the while, bemoaning my boy-mommy naivete and crying over his bloody chin.
This morning, I realized my child had more than a bruised and scraped chin. Well, perhaps not more . . . he had “less” of something:
Mommy cried all over again this morning.
Lesson #5: Being a boy mommy is hard . . . and sad . . . and apparently requires more than an occasional trip to the dentist or doctor.
Sigh.
