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| My handsome guys, on Father's Day |
Dear Stinky Pete,
Yesterday we had three spills. First thing in the A.M., you dumped Lunchbox's water dish into your lap in the bedroom as I dressed for the day. I laughed, cleaned you up, blotted the carpet, and we got on with the morning. But, a few hours later, when you spilled the (considerably larger and thus fuller) water bowl in the kitchen, I lost my temper. In my defense, a headache was creeping up on me, and I was feeling a little overwhelmed with a six-person-and-two-dog-household mess. You were unhappy with me for being unhappy with you, as I clumsily and irritably attempted to clean yet another mess.
Once the water was mopped up and your clothes changed, I, too, was unhappy with me. I have never wanted to be That Mother: frazzled and angry, short-fused over my kid just being a kid. I had to remind myself of a lesson I've had the opportunity to learn hundreds of times, a lesson that would make my life not smoother but sweeter, if only it would stick: choose to see things as funny.
I'm a better granddaughter, sister, wife, aunt, mother, friend, person when I'm laughing. We're all better people when we're laughing. And I'm of the opinion that if there's any purpose to our existence on this planet, it is to make ourselves and others as happy as possible.
So. When the third spill happened, a couple hours following the second, I had this lesson fresh in my mind. Cleaning out the freezer, I spilled a bag of popcorn kernels your Grandpa Bob had stowed away. And, as the tiny kernels rattled across the linoleum and Sputnik snuffled after them, I forced myself to laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha. You, from your vantage point sitting in the high chair, laughed in earnest, then. And at your giggle, my false laughed transformed into a real boy chuckle. Once again, I faked it til I made it (with a little help from you).
In the past two weeks, you have cut three teeth, and you've learned to walk the distance of the living room. Your Papa thinks you're trying to get these things out of the way so come your birthday you can focus entirely and enthusiastically on digging into your cake. Good plan, Bubba.
Love you always,
Mama
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| 43 Weeks, Tough Guy with his black eye |
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| 44 Weeks |
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| 45 Weeks |
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| 46 Weeks |
